


Hotel Hobbies

by loversandantiheroes



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Angry Sex, Banter, Breathplay, Choking, Come Eating, Creampie, Drinking, Edging, Exactly one (1) use of Spanish that I hope I didn't fuck up too badly, Exhibitionism, F/M, Face-Sitting, Femdom, Maledom, Multiple Orgasms, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex, Quasi-Hatefuck (Kinda??), Rope Bondage, Rough Sex, Slight Spanking, Spanking, Unprotected Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vague allusions to Whiskey's job and the dangers contained therein, Whiskey is a service top and I do not take criticism, blatant disregard for canon, spitting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:41:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25592959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loversandantiheroes/pseuds/loversandantiheroes
Summary: He’s an insufferable, obnoxious blowhard.  Which would be fine if he wasn’t also - some-fucking-how - hotter than a fucking wildfire.  And to make matters worse, now you’ve invited him up to your hotel room.
Relationships: Jack | Whiskey/Reader
Comments: 32
Kudos: 246





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spite remains one of my biggest creative motivators, and Kingsman: The Golden Circle filled me with quite a lot of it. This is the rather long-winded result.

You’d met him, of all places, in the hotel bar, shored up over a drawn-out business conference. He’d turned up three nights running, a brash braggart in a stetson and too-tight jeans that seemed to stroll dick-first around the room, tossing pickup lines at anything that moved. By sheer luck he’d missed you, leaving the first night with a leggy blonde and the second night with a considerably curvier brunette.

Both times you counted your blessings as you watched him walk out with his arm around the unlucky lady. You didn’t know the man but you knew the type: the costume cowboys that laid on the charm as thick as their cologne to mask the smell of their shitty personalities.

But now on Sunday, night number three, your luck seems to have finally run out. Just as you finish your drink the bartender sets down another – whiskey, neat – and gestures at the end of the bar. “From the gentleman.”

You hardly need to look up to know what you’ll see. Smug, half-cocked grin. A gentle tip of the hat. 

Fuck. Jesus, _why._

You grimace out a polite smile out of sheer habit, and before you can even begin to slide the drink back towards the bartender the man has appeared at your elbow like a country-fried jack-in-the-box.

His cologne, at the very least, is not as heavy as you’d expected. Small mercies.

“Thanks, but-” you begin, already bracing yourself against the bar to stand.

“Oh no need for thanks.” He rolls right over you with all the practiced ease of a well-oiled steamroller. His voice is low, with a thick, heavy drawl that feels just a bit too put-upon to be completely real. “You’ll have to forgive me for being so forward, but I simply couldn’t stand to see a lady as lovely as yourself drinking alone three nights in a row. Thought I might offer the benefit of some company.”

He extends a broad brown hand. A tiny blurred bullseye marks the skin between the thumb and forefinger. “Name’s Jack. Most folks just call me Whiskey.”

“Whiskey,” you repeat, trying not to roll your eyes at the rather awful joke.

“Yes ma’am.”

You purse your lips, considering, as his hand hangs between you. You know more than a few ways to cut this little introduction short, though several of them – while wholly effective – might just see you banned from the hotel bar. And with easily another three days of bureaucratic bullshit on the horizon, you’re really not keen on that happening. Present company aside, the bar’s pretty nice.

Maybe if you’re lucky you can bore him to death.

Begrudgingly you take his hand. The skin of his palms is thick with calluses. A surprising thing. His clothing is more designer than LL Bean, which made you think he was a business man or entertainer – the sort of rich asshole that owned a prized stallion at a private stable somewhere that he rode once or twice a month when he wanted to feel a little _authentic._

But those callouses are hard and smooth. Not quite a workman’s hands, but certainly the result of something a good deal more tactile and involved than pencil pushing. And that’s enough to make you wonder a little. Now that he’s up close and personal, his face makes you wonder a _lot_. This is no Kentucky white boy. Not with eyes that dark, or that curving nose. And honestly, if it wasn’t for that insufferably cocky look on his face, he’d be a hell of a looker.

“I didn’t catch your name,” he says, thumb grazing your knuckles before releasing your hand.

“No, you didn’t,” you say lightly. "And I’m afraid I don’t have much of a taste for whiskey.“

He grins, leaning heavily against the bar and motioning for the bartender. "Well now, if my namesake isn’t up to your liking, what would be to your taste?” He hooks the tumbler of whiskey towards himself with a finger – a rather _thick_ finger, and that’s one detail you’re a little dismayed to find yourself lingering on – and takes a slow sip.

You tap your glass with three fingers as the bartender approaches. "Tequila.“

The man who calls himself Whiskey gives an appreciative whistle as three shots line up in front of you. "Well now ain’t that a plot twist. You must have a hell of a constitution. Tequila always leaves me flat on my back.” He eyes you up and down, grinning, and the hot flush that brings on isn’t half as uncomfortable as you’d like it to be. "Reckon I can see a similarity or two.“

"I just get the feeling I’m going to need something a little stronger than a Cosmo to get me through this conversation,” you reply coolly, ignoring the innuendo. "You have until I finish these shots, by the way.“

Whiskey purses his lips, pouting. "I see you’ve already jumped to a few conclusions about me. Hardly seems fair.”

You shrug, downing the first shot with little fanfare. "You’ve hardly been subtle. What happened to Friday and Saturday’s girls?“

He takes a sip of his own drink, thumb rubbing thoughtfully against the side of his jaw. You try not to watch the way his throat works when he swallows. "Now if I didn’t know any better, I’d _almost_ think you were a little sore it took me so long to come and see you.”

He positively _croons_ that last, and you tell yourself the warmth you feel kicking up in your belly is just the tequila. Thank God for plausible deniability.

“Don’t flatter yourself, cowboy,” you say with a glare.

He chuckles. “Darlin’, had I known you’d had eyes on me this whole time I would’ve come over a hell of a lot sooner,” he teases.

You can only shake your head, half in wonder and half in contempt. "How did you even fit that much ego through the door?“

Whiskey tips his glass to you with a smirk, unfazed. "Patience, dedication, and a whole lotta practice.”

You reach for the second shot, and Whiskey lets out a little sigh. He puts his hand over your wrist, fingers flat.

“Hey c'mon now. Slow down, sugar. As much as I like to tease, I ain’t about to put your sensibilities _or_ your liver out of sorts for the sake of poking fun.”

When he pulls his hand back, reaching for his own glass, it’s everything you can do to mask the little shiver that ripples up your back. He is _quite_ warm.

“I figured you for the sort that’d _prefer_ a girl to be out of her sensibilities,” you say quietly, fingers tapping against the rim of your glass. The skin on the back of your wrist _hums_ where he touched you, and you do your damnedest to ignore it.

The corner of his mouth hitches up in a half-grin. "Oh, _afterward_ , surely. But never before.“

You roll your eyes. "An asshole with a sense of propriety. Now that’s novel.”

“Part of my charm,” he says. “Bastard by profession and gentleman by nature. But I mean it. You are well within every right to walk away. Ain’t gonna harm nothin’ but my ego, and _Lord_ knows there’s enough of that to go around.“

You roll the shot glass between your palms. "And if I walk away?“

Whiskey shrugs. “Well, then I get to cherish the view as you leave.”

“God, shut _up.”_

His grin widens and he leans in, teasing. “A bittersweet thought to keep me warm, alone in that big empty hotel bed tonight.”

The glass almost rolls straight out of your hands. "I am _not_ fucking you,“ you sputter, and your cheeks burn as you realize you practically _pole vaulted_ directly to that conclusion with barely any preamble.

The silence hangs after that, heavy and charged. Somehow you think Whiskey’s eyes have gone even darker. 

“I said nothin’ of the sort,” Whiskey says delicately, hands raised in supplication.

There’s a cold-burning fire in the pit of your stomach.Some of it’s the alcohol. But most of it is a shameful delight at the way he’s looking at you, and the mounting surety that you are probably certainly _definitely_ going to fuck him if you don’t walk away and call it a night now. You’re not sure whether you hate him more for the assumption, or for almost certainly being _right._

He says nothing, just looks you over expectantly. Waiting to see what you’ll do.

Slowly, you down your second shot. Fuck it. If this asshole is going to be your next mistake, you might as well make it on your own goddamned terms.

"So,” you say, resting your elbows on the bar. _“Whiskey._ What is it that you do?“

He laughs, full-throated, and the corners of his eyes crinkle up in what you suspect might be a genuine smile. It’s lovely, and that might just be the most infuriating thing of all. 

"Oh darlin’. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

⁂

“A _lasso?_ God, what am I saying, of _course_ you’d own a lasso, why am I even surprised?”

“Oh, see now, that is offensive,” Whiskey says with a tut. "I don’t just own it, darlin’, I use it. _Well_ _._ I have a deft hand with a rope, if I do say so myself.“

Leaning over conspiratorially, he adds: "I’d be happy to show you, if you’re interested.”

"You brought your lasso with you?” you ask, ignoring the proposition. “On a business trip?”

“An essential tool of my trade,” Whiskey insists. When the only response you give is the hiking of your eyebrows, he shrugs. "See now, I told you you wouldn’t believe me.“

"Oh I see,” you say with an understanding smile, “you go undercover as a rodeo clown.”

 _“Shit,”_ Whiskey mutters, and the long, slow sigh he lets out holds the wavering suggestion of a laugh. "Lord have mercy, girl, if that tongue of yours were any sharper I’d be dead from a thousand cuts.“

You make a vague gesture, a little flourish of the fingers. "If you didn’t like it, you would’ve left by now.”

The smirk turns into a grin. "Never said I didn’t like it.“

The bartender wanders by, moving to refill Whiskey’s now-empty glass. Shaking his head, he drops his hand over it, and the bartender wanders away once more.

"Had your fill?”

“No such thing,” he says, eyes gleaming. "Just got something a little more appetizing in mind.“

You can see the proposition start to form on his lips, and before he even has the chance to put breath to it you stand and down your last shot. His face falls, desire crashing neatly into a maudlin sort of amusement. But then you push in close, stepping between his knees and put your mouth close enough to his ear that your breath stirs the carefully combed dark hair that curls behind it.

"Room 513. Bring your ropes and I’ll show you just how deft _my_ hand is with a knot.”

He doesn’t breathe for a moment, not until you snake your hand past his ridiculous flask belt buckle and lightly press your palm against his fly. His breath catches in the back of his throat, rumbling out in a growl almost too low to hear. You swear you feel it more than you hear it. A vibration that starts in his chest and ends so close to your ear you can feel his breath prick up goosebumps against the side of your neck. The rush that pings off is hot and heady, and god it’s _miles_ better than the tequila. You pull back enough to look him in the eye, tapping your fingers lightly against the denim of his jeans.

“Be a good boy and settle the tab, would you?”

Whiskey grins, slow and hungry. “Yes ma'am.”

The elevator takes an age. You rest the back of your head against the wall, feeling the low thrum of machinery travel through your skull like a tuning fork. 

You’re doing this. You’re actually _doing_ this.

What makes it even worse is just how goddamn turned on you are at the prospect. You hate him all the more for that. Hate yourself a little for liking it. Every look he gave that sent a hot flush through your body, every brush of his fingers that felt like an electric shock. How fucking dare he get _any_ reaction out of you, least of all _wanting_ _?_

Getting him on the back foot at the end there was the best of it. Catching him off-guard. That obscene little growl when you touched him. If you could play that on a loop you just might. And god it made you wonder. Was he as loud in bed as he was in life? How would he sound with your nails in his back, or your teeth in his shoulder? What would he sound like with one of your hands at the column of his throat and the other around his cock, teasing him to the brink again and again but always stopping short of his release?

Would he beg? You wouldn’t have thought him the type. But that last. The look on his face. 

_Yes ma'am._

A thought bursts in your head like a firework, illuminating a strobe-flash image of Whiskey on his knees, trussed up nice and pretty with his wrists bound to his ankles and a coil of smooth rope slithering around the base of his straining cock like a wicked snake.

A shiver rockets up your spine so hard it makes your whole body shake. _“Shit,”_ you mutter, pacing around the elevator and trying to ignore the growing heat between your legs.

The elevator slows, stops, door opening with a chime. You set off down the hall quickly, fumbling in your purse for your key card. Fuck it. If he wants you tonight, he can have you. But by _fuck_ you’re going to ruin him for the privilege of it.

“A fuck to remember, cowboy,” you mutter to your empty room as the door swings open. "Just you wait.“

The knock comes less than five minutes later. Whiskey leans against the door frame with a small bag over his shoulder and that insufferably smug grin on his face. Somehow even that isn’t as bad as the way he’s got his hip cocked, hand braced on his belt, like he ought to be resting his hand on the butt of a low-slung pistol. 

“Y’know,” Whiskey drawls, a nervous twitch playing at the corner of his crooked grin, “when I mentioned ropes, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

You square your shoulders, leveling your gaze with his. "Problem?”

Shaking his head, Whiskey pushes himself forward, swinging the door shut behind him with a heel. "None at all.“

You hook your fingers behind his belt buckle, pulling him along. "This thing just for show, or are you actually packing?” you ask, giving the small flask a tug.

He laughs, low and dirty, tossing the duffel bag onto the bed. "You even have to ask?“ His fingers slip through yours, popping the flask free. The first swig is his – the closest thing to a goodwill gesture he can offer – before he passes it to you. 

You tip it up, the dark and burnt-sweet taste of good whiskey flooding your mouth. You pull him down, mouth still full, and put your lips to his. His tongue presses in urgently, sweeping through the drink as you swallow. It is _sinfully_ good – both the whiskey _and_ his mouth, not that you’d ever tell him so – and your fingers curl instinctively into the dark sweep of his hair.

"Not bad,” you breathe, chasing the warmth of his tongue with your own. That’s the highest compliment you swear you’re going to give him tonight.

“Private stock,” he mutters, mouth still half on you. You can feel the pulse at his neck hammer away under your wrist. "Helluva lot better than that swill they serve downstairs.“

"Guess _all_ whiskey isn’t so bad,” you concede, pulling his hat off and letting it fall.

His hands find the small of your back, creeping down to your ass and pulling your hips flush with his. "Sometimes you just gotta find the right variety.“

His thigh grinds up between your legs, bunching your dress up with it. There’s a pressure against your hip, too, hot and solid,and it’s all you can do to turn the moan that almost breaks from your throat into a growl of: "Shut up.”

The empty flask bounces off the corner of the bed and tumbles to the floor. Neither of you notice.

“Are you partial to this?” you ask, plucking at the front of his dress shirt.

He grins, breath hot against your cheek, and shakes his head. "I got more.“

"Good.” At least three buttons go flying as you yank the front of his shirt open. Whiskey only laughs, still chasing your mouth, thigh still pressing maddeningly up between your legs.

The barely-repressed beer belly you expected is nowhere to be found. He’s lean and solid, well-tended muscle half-hidden under a healthy layer of softness that speaks as much of age as it does appetite. A man made up of equal parts dedication and debauchery. His bare skin is warm under your hands, smoothness marred by faint tracks and traces of scars, some you can see and some you can only feel. A knot of thickened skin against his ribcage; a tell-tale divot in the plane of his back where muscle tissue had been punctured.

 _Nothing_ about him makes sense.

Unintentionally you begin to drift, losing yourself to the teasing friction of his thigh and the inviting warmth of his mouth. Then his teeth graze your bottom lip, tugging at it, and the low chuckle that bubbles up in his chest – dark and filthy and _far_ too goddamned pleased _–_ makes you realize how close you are to losing your grip on the situation.

You pull away, seizing the first rational thought you can grasp. "Are you clean?“

Whiskey tilts his head, grinning. His hand closes on your breast, kneading thoughtfully. "Only where it counts. Otherwise I promise I am very _very_ dirty.”

“Smart-ass. I’m _serious.”_

He slows, nods. "So am I. My work takes the health of those in its employ rather seriously. We’re screened for just about everything at least once a month. There’s condoms in my wallet, but hand to God, honeybee, my cock is clean enough to eat off of, if you’re so inclined.“

"Jesus.” You bump your hip against him just a little harder than necessary. "Someone’s optimistic.“

Whiskey grunts, jerking in a matter that’s more reflex than actual pain. He chuckles, nipping at your jaw. "It’s one of my finer traits. But if we’re sharing, what about _you?”_

You run your thumb over his bottom lip and watch his tongue dart out to chase it. "Why, are you looking for a place setting?“

"Maybe. You’d be a better meal than I’ve had all week,” he mutters, capturing the tip of your thumb with his teeth.

“Clean.” After a second of consideration you add: “And on the pill.”

He moans around your finger. "Music to my ears.“

You scratch your nails experimentally down his back and he _growls_ , grabbing your thigh and hoisting you up closer, grinding you down against him forcefully. The friction is gorgeous, the flex of muscle against you even better. You tilt your head, sighing through a smile, and smack his hand away.

"Down boy.” When he groans in protest you tighten your grip on his hair. The cords in his neck stand out beautifully as he tenses, eyes glittering. You press your mouth to the bobbing knot of his adam’s apple, then let him go. “My room, my rules. Now. Show me what you brought me.”

Whiskey turns to the bag he discarded, yanking the zipper open and dragging out a bundled length of rope. It’s surprisingly heavy, but soft and supple, and you have absolutely no doubt as to what sort of use it was made for.

“I thought you said you had a _lasso_ _,”_ you say, suppressing a laugh.

“I do,” he insists, mouth against the cusp of your ear. "But that’s _work_. This is play. And rope burn is a bitch. I do not recommend it recreationally.“

"And you just happen to have bondage rope in your luggage?” you press, gently striking at his chest with the coil. "I thought said you were a secret agent. From here you’re starting to look like a Dom-for-hire.“

The little exhale against your ear as he chuckles raises goosebumps from your neck all the way down your arms. "I’d like to think I’m a little more versatile than that, honeybee.” One of his hands disappears up the hem of your dress, the other closes around the coil of rope. "Though I bet you’d look a _dream_ all bound up. Sure I can’t convince you to let me give you that demonstration?“

The pads of his fingers press up against the material of your panties firmly, circling slow. This time you don’t remove his hand. You sway with it, sighing. He sways with you. Chases the deepening of your breath. It’s almost tempting. _Almost._

You brush your lips over his. Pretend you _don’t_ want to know what he might do to you if you gave in.

"Positive.”

The corners of his mouth turn down comically. The hand between your leg retreats. You try not to let it show just how much your cunt _aches_ at the withdrawal.

“Alright then,” he sighs, damn near pouting. He pushes the rope towards you. Pushes himself against you. "Just promise you’ll ride me hard and put me away wet.“

You draw your finger in a criss-cross above your heart. _Honey if you only knew._

Whiskey puts his arms behind his back, rolling his shoulders, and asks smoothly: "How do you want me, darlin’?”

_Ruined._

You consider the possibilities. Positions and orientations. He doesn’t make a sound when you brush the rope against one small, puckered nipple, but the muscle at his jaw jumps and tightens.

“I almost want to see you hog-tied. See if you’ll squeal.” You pace around him, trailing hands and rope over his skin.

“But,” you continue, “maybe it’s best to start small. For _your_ sake.”

He chuckles, glances over his shoulder towards you. When he opens his mouth to speak you bring your hand down briskly against his ass. He jerks, muscles tensing. The surprise on his face doesn’t last. His eyelids drift closed for a moment, flying open only when you bring your hand down _again_ , twice in quick succession.

He’s not possessed of _much_ ass, to be fair – whatever god put him together clearly put his damned ego together first and left his ass somewhere down the bottom of the list next to his sense of decency. But what there _is_ is delightfully plush. You knead it, hand tingling, watching Whiskey sway on the tips of his boots with his eyes closed, erection straining at the zipper of his designer jeans.

“On the bed, pretty boy,” you instruct. "On your back. Arms up.“

When he speaks, his voice has gone low and hoarse. "Yes ma'am.”

It takes a little time to finagle the rope. Hotel beds, by default, are typically not built with bondage allotments. After a little consideration you tie one end to his right wrist and slip the length of it behind the headboard before tying off the other end to his left wrist.

He shifts, tugging against the knots experimentally. When they don’t slip or tighten, he pulls a face, impressed. “You’re good with a knot, little lady, I will give you that.”

“Told you.” You give his cheek a condescending pat and slide off the bed, reaching for the zipper on your dress.

Out of the corner of your eye you can see him squirm for a moment, testing the ropes a little more adamantly before his head flops back against the pillow in mock defeat. If even half the things he’s told you over the course of the evening are true – a deluge of James Bond bullshit that’s almost too shockingly arrogant to be _entirely_ a lie – then you’re fairly certain he could get out of those ropes if he had half a mind to. 

“I see my mistake was thinking you might be interested the _receiving_ end of the rope,” he remarks lightly. 

“It’s not that I’m not interested,” you reassure him, peeling off your dress and kicking off your heels. The angle is bad, he has to crane his neck to watch. Not that it stops him. You swear you can hear his neck pop in his eagerness to get an eyeful of you. “You just haven’t earned that privilege yet.”

His tongue darts out, wetting his bottom lip. His eyes can’t quite decide where to settle. “Gracious. And what would it take to earn that little slice of heaven?”

You smile sweetly, popping the clasp on your bra and letting it fall. “A lot longer than two minutes and a cigarette.”

The pout returns. “Oh, now darlin’, I _promise_ you I-”

“Hush.” You pop two fingers in his mouth, cutting him off. He doesn’t get to finish. At all, if he’s not careful. 

He gives you a pleading look, all big eyes and mock hurt. You push your fingers forward, almost enough to choke, and those infuriatingly pretty eyes go wide. The fact that such a handsome face belongs to such a pompous blowhard is a joke on a truly cosmic level.

“You keep giving me those puppy dog eyes and I’m going to start thinking you need to be housebroken. You’re gonna behave now or you’re gonna get punished. Understood?”

You pull your hand away. This time Whiskey doesn’t pout. He doesn’t try that saccharine country boy charm, either. He just swallows hard and gives a slow, obedient nod. “Yes ma’am.”

“Good.”

You turn away again, rifling through your suitcase. You find what you’re looking for tucked away in one of the zippered pockets. Almost as an afterthought you slip your panties off, tossing them onto the coverlet as you climb up onto the bed and settle your bare ass on Whiskey’s stomach. The heat of him between your legs is _gorgeous_.

“Now. Two rules. Number one: you don’t touch until I say you can touch. Shouldn’t be too hard in your current position, but it’s good to be clear.“ You run your fingers over his chest as you talk, tracing the edges of muscle and faded scars. Whiskey stays silent, for a wonder, his breathing deepening and slowing as you touch him.

"Number two: you don’t get to come until I give you permission.”

He smirks, eyes wide. A little crack of apprehension splinters his bravado now, but he’s still possessed of too much pride to back down from a challenge.

“And if should – _somehow_ – fail number two?”

“Then I get to punish you,” you say, a light, off-handed statement of the obvious. “If either of these are going to be a problem I’ll untie these ropes now and you can yee-haw your happy ass back to your own room and tug one out to the thought of what might’ve been. Deal?”

He pretends to think it over, as if the furious twitching of his belt buckle against your bare ass wasn’t a dead giveaway.

“Rules or no rules, a man would have to be certifiable to turn _you_ down, darlin’. I accept.”

“Good,” you say smiling indulgently.

And with no further preamble, you slide your vibrator underneath his belt and turn it on.

“Jesus!”He jerks, startled first by the intrusion – those jeans left precious little to the imagination _before_ he was hard and there is far less room to spare now – and then by the cold. When the vibration hits he bucks up with a strangled shout, lifting you up with him. You steady yourself, one hand on his chest, the other hanging onto his belt. Your own private rodeo.

“Giddy-up,” you say, laughing. “Five minutes, cowboy. Think you can handle it?”

“A…little… _warning_ would have…been _nice_ _!”_ he grits out, a nervous laugh breaking off into a groan as your hand carries on down past his belt.

“Hm, y’know I probably should’ve. How unfair of me.” Smiling, you grip him tightly, squeezing his trapped length against the vibrator.

He shudders all the way down to his boots, heels thudding against the bed as he twitches hard against your hand. And dammit, his cock _feels_ delightful. Thick and full and just long enough to justify some – _some_ – of that arrogant swagger. A prick with a nice prick. That alone feels like proof that there’s no justice in the universe.

Watching him struggle is a joy. Sure there’s something to be said for seeing a pompous ass squirm- it’s the whole damned reason you let him into your hotel room after all – but that’s not all of it. He is beautifully built. When he tenses, hips rising, arms straining against his bindings, you watch the corded ripple of his muscles dance under his skin. The man is altogether a far more appealing sight than he has any right to be, and part of you would be perfectly content to work him over until he came in his jeans and let him walk back to his hotel room with the evidence trailing down his leg for that fact alone.

You ride the roll of his hips easy, enjoying the rising panic on his face as he tries so very _very_ hard to wait. He is, quite surprisingly, making a genuine effort. It’s almost endearing.

“Should’ve known you’d be a tease,” he mutters in a trembling voice. “Surely there’s better ways for a man t-to – _oh_ – earn his supper than this mechanical bull ride.”

“I’m not your supper.”

A sigh turns into a breathy chuckle and it might just be the dirtiest thing you’ve ever heard. “No, darlin’. Oh n-no, you are a full-course _banquet.”_

You squeeze a little harder and the vibrator slips, rolling directly underneath his cock, and he lets out a hoarse, strained moan that turns your insides molten.

The ride gets a little rougher. Whiskey can’t quite keep still, bucking and squirming beneath you. It’s hard to tell if he’s trying to get away from the stimulation or chase more of it.Every breath rushes out in a groan or a half-choked obscenity. He even prays a little, once in English and again in a grating, stuttering tumble of Spanish.

His cries start to crest just as the clock on the wall marks minute five. He thrusts up, legs thrumming, his face twisted in a gorgeous mix of pleasure and panic, and the way you suddenly _slide_ forward against his skin has you biting back a gasp.

“ _Shit oh shit, no no no, wait wait, fuck-”_

“Time!” you call out, yanking the vibrator free.

He grunts like he’s been winded, back still arched high. And then he _whines,_ the sound a mix of overwhelming relief and disappointment. “You don’t…play fair,” he pants, shivering as he slowly eases back down onto the bed.

“If you wanted _fair_ you should’ve bargained a little harder, cowboy.” You crane your neck, eyeing the denim along his crotch for any sign he might’ve fired off too early. There _is_ a dark spot, but it’s no bigger than a quarter. The length of him is still twitching and straining against the fabric, providing just enough stimulation to keep the muscles in his jaw tense. 

You scrape your fingernails over the taut, wet denim and Whiskey grunts, trying to pull his hips away.

“No no _don’t!”_

His cock pulses, and the dark spot spreads. 

You tut softly. “Well now, I hope you didn’t just do what I think you did.”

“Oh God. I didn’t,” he mutters hoarsely. “On my mother’s life, I swear.”

“This is hardly a conversation to drag your mother into.”

He is _probably_ telling the truth. But it’d be bad form to simply take his word for it.

Ignoring the near overwhelming temptation to finish him off with one cruel grind of your hips, you scoot down and set to work on his belt. He flinches, whining and complaining at every movement.

“C’mon big man, I thought you were tougher than this.”

When your fingers close around the base of his cock he hisses. _“Careful,”_ he insists through gritted teeth.

You wrench him free, none too delicately, and he drops his head with a groan. “Jesus Jumped-Up Christ, you are the devil incarnate, woman.”

“I’ve barely done anything,” you say innocently.

Whiskey laughs, thin and whistling. “Don’t I know it.”

There is a larger spot on the inside of his dark blue jockeys, and silvery threads of pre-come trailing from the fabric to his cock, but no trace of white. True to his word.

“Satisfied?” He cranes his neck up to look at you, sweat matting his hair at the temples.

You run your thumb up the underside of his cock, feeling his pulse thudding heavily inside. A pearly drop of pre-come rises at the tip, and without even a second to consider it, you lick it away.

His breath catches sharply, tongue darting out across his bottom lip.

“Not yet,” you tell him.

He manages a ghost of that half-cocked grin. “’Course not. What’ve you got in mind?”

His cock slaps against his stomach as you release him. “You seem to like running your mouth,” you say crawling over him. “Why don’t you put it to good use.” 

You raise up, carefully stepping over his arms. Whiskey, for his part, is staring up at you like he just got given permission to drive through the streets of Heaven in a solid gold Cadillac.

“If you can make me come in five minutes,” you tell him graciously, “I’ll untie you.”

He raises his eyebrows. “How many times?” he drawls.

You shut him up.

The touch of his mouth is hot and velvet soft, mustache tickling only a little. When his tongue parts you and finds you almost obscenely wet he grins wide enough that you can feel the smoothness of his teeth. His dark eyes lock with yours and for a second you’re sure you can read his mind.

_Gotcha._

There’s no choir of angels summoned down to herald the coming of his mouth unto your pussy. He’s not _that_ good. But he also hasn’t got the fucking decency to be flat-out terrible at it like he ought to be. Instead, he puts that ceaseless mouth of his to work, devouring you like you are every inch a banquet. 

Goddamn it, why couldn’t he just be _terrible?_

You bite at the insides of your cheeks to try to stop a gasp. It doesn’t quite work, and you have a sneaking suspicion that the vibration that ripples through you is a laugh.

“Bastard,” you mutter, grabbing a fistful of his dark hair. “Didn’t even think you’d know what a clit _was,_ let alone where to find it.”

He makes a sound of mock hurt, a knowing glint in his eyes. You roll your hips forward, trying to grind that smug look away, but the slide of his tongue only makes things _worse_. Heat blooms, pleasure building like a deep itch. Five minutes you said. You’re going to be lucky to make it to three. Goddamn him.

It’s useless, but you fight it. Make him work even harder to make you come. Every moan that breaks loose you twist into an insult. You pull his hair hard enough to make him growl and his mouth leaves your cunt to draw a wet circle across your thigh with his tongue.

“The lady doth protest too much,” he says darkly, strong, even teeth nipping at the skin there. "You’re lucky I don’t take offense easy.”

“Didn’t…tell you…to _stop,”_ you pant, trying to urge his mouth back onto you. You’re not sure what you want more now: to see him lose, or to come all over his smug fucking face and to hell with your upper-hand. “Still…on the clock.”

“Don’t worry about that, darlin’,” he says, planting a sucking kiss at the junction of your thigh. “All the time in the world. Just a pity I don’t have use of my hands just now. I would dearly love to feel just how tight this delectable little pussy gets when you come.”

“You are such an asshole,” you groan.

“Oh yes indeed. But I am an asshole that can get a job done.”

He ducks down, pushing himself down the bed, arms straining as the ropes go taut. You’re about to ask him what the hell he’s up to before his tongue sinks into you, nose nudging your clit, and your question turns into a garbled shout. The curses that pour out of you are quite literally lost on deaf ears – your thighs are clamped far too tightly around his head for him to hear anything.

You ride his tongue until he forces himself up, gasping for air.

The clock on the wall wavers in an out of focus.

Four minutes. Almost. So very nearly there. Just a little longer….

As if sensing that time is finally running out, Whiskey latches onto you, sucking hard, tongue swirling around and around your clit. And suddenly you’re racing that second hand whether you want to or not, legs trembling and thighs burning.

“Bastard,” you gasp out again. “Oh fuck you, you bastard, you _bastard, how dare you, how dare you??”_

You lurch forward with a deep groan, shuddering as you come. With twenty seconds left to spare.

“Flutters just like a butterfly on the tongue. Dee- _lightful.”_ Whiskey hums in boastful satisfaction. "How’s that clock lookin’, honeybee? Provided you can _see_ it.“

“I _hate_ you,” you breathe, still shaking. “Oh g-g-God, I hate you so much.” The ringing in your ears is so loud you can barely hear him laugh.

"I’ll take that as a success.” He leaves one last slow and sloppy kiss against your swollen cunt. “Untie me, beautiful, and I’ll make you hate me even more.”

 _"Ass._ If I’d known -”

“Honeybee, the way you were drippin’ I could’ve had you coming on my tongue in under a minute if I’d had a mind to. Don’t be sore. Fair is fair. _Untie me.”_

You grit your teeth, hating to give him even an inch of ground. Too late to change the terms now. Swinging one wobbling leg over his torso to keep from _completely_ suffocating him (even if it _does_ sound fucking agreeable right now), you steady yourself, setting to work on the first knot. When the rope falls away you stretch over, groping along the coverlet for your discarded panties and dropping them carelessly on his face. “Seeing as you’re getting your hands back, clean yourself up.”

You pretend you can’t see him grinning into your underwear as you start to work on his other hand.

With the rope discarded, you shimmy down, hovering over him on all fours. His hands slide up your back and you knock them away, grabbing his wrists and placing them at the sides of his head.

He tries for a smile, but his dark eyes bore into you with an intensity that could set fire to wet kindling. "C'mon now darlin’ -“

 _"No._ I didn’t give you permission yet. And if you keep running your mouth like that all you’re gonna get is a mouthful of dirty lace and an aching cock.”

His face is all thunder, but underneath you he is still rock hard and throbbing. You lower yourself down, sliding the wet sheath of your cunt against him. He makes a low, gut-wrenching sound like he’s been sucker-punched. 

_“Fuck._ Goddamn it, baby, what do you _want?”_

The head of his cock catches against your over-sensitive clit. It’s still so soon after your orgasm that the sensation is closer to discomfort than pleasure, but the way he jerks and shudders under you keeps you moving.

You lower yourself down completely, until you’re lying flush against him, nose to nose. "I want you to _b_ _eg_ for it, you cock-sure bastard.“

His jaw works. "Please,” he breathes, hips canting up towards you.

You _grind_ your hips down and he whines. The muscles in his arms jump and dance under your hands. If he’s got even _half_ the strength in him you think he does, he could be free of you in seconds. But he takes it. Bitching and writhing all the way, but he takes it.

“You can do better than that. Come on.” You flick your tongue against his lips, tasting yourself. He stretches up, trying to kiss you, but you pull away. “Come _on._ Couldn’t get you to shut up before, don’t get bashful now.”

 _“Please_ let me touch you.”

The motion of your bodies hits a rocking stride, that sweet heat beginning to build again. His zipper bites into the soft skin of your thighs, belt jangling and knocking against your ankle. You wish you’d just stripped him when you had the chance.

“You wanna touch me?”

 _“Yes,”_ he hisses.

“You wanna fuck me?”

When he doesn’t answer, you bend down, licking a wet stripe down his chest before biting down on his nipple.

He yelps, twisting. _“Fuck!”_

“Answer me.”

He pushes his head back into the pillow, neck strained and taut. "Yes, yes goddamn it, yes. You _know_ I do.I wanna fuck you so bad, honeybee, _please.“_

He’s panting now. Partly frustration, partly pleasure. He is _almost_ where you want him. You keep rolling into him, feeling the tension in him build. He rocks up and away from you, trying to find the angle that will let him slip inside. You move with him, never quite giving him enough room to find your center. There’s just the sweet slide of your achingly wet pussy against his cock. Not nearly enough, and still far too much. 

He pushes harder, rhythm slowing. He hitches in a ragged breath and then -

And then you push yourself up and away, leaving his cock bobbing in empty air.

 _"No no no please.”_ His hips jerk up _hard_ , the weeping head of his cock painting a sticky trail against your thigh. "Please, please god _damn_ it, girl, give it _back.“_

Your head swims, drunk more on his growing desperation than you ever could be on alcohol. _"Convince_ me. Or this is as close as you’re ever gonna get.”

Whiskey grits his teeth, hands clenching. "Give it _back,“_ he pants. His arms tremble, no longer straining to reach you, but straining to keep still. "Please, baby, I _need_ it. I wanna feel how tight you are. How wet. How fuckin’ _hot._ I wanna know what it feels like inside you when you come. Hold me down if you want. _Use me._ Ride me fuckin’ _raw._ I don’t _care_. Just give it back and _don’t stop_.”

Whiskey isn’t looking at you. He can’t. His eyes are squeezed shut tight with the effort of stillness. It takes a long moment before you even realize you’ve been holding your breath. Slowly you lower yourself again, press down against him. He shudders, jaw hanging open as he groans.

“Yes _God_ yes, you’re so fuckin’ _wet_ , Jesus fucking Christ,baby please don’t _stop._ _”_

He doesn’t seem to notice you let go of his wrists. His arms stay locked in place as you curl an arm around his head, tangling your hand in his hair.

“Look at me.” Your voice feels odd in your throat. Thick and unfamiliar. You tighten your grip on his hair. Tug once. "Whiskey. _Look at me.“_

He blinks, dazed, finds your eyes and locks in. Confusion softens his face as he realizes you’re not holding him down anymore.

You slide a hand down between the two of you and grasp his cock. He’s a throbbing mess, beating against your palm like a second heart. A tilt of your hips seats him against your entrance.

He gasps. Tenses. _Waits._

"Good boy. Now. Ask nicely.”

“Please,” he whispers. His voice cracks like crystal and your blood sings in your ears. "Please, may I fuck you?“

On impulse, you kiss the end of his hawkish nose. Perhaps it’s mocking. Perhaps not.

"Yes you may.”

The sound he makes might be relief, gratitude, or fucking _triumph._ All you know is suddenly you are _engulfed_ in him. He surges forward like a goddamned tidal wave and suddenly you’re on your back, wound in his arms, and he’s sinking into you like a depth charge.

 _“Sweet mother of fucking mercy,”_ he growls against your throat, burying himself in you an inch at a time.

His heartbeat hammers _inside_ of you, a shuddering pulsation as he settles at last, down to the root. You clench around him and his whole body tenses, and you feel the rush of warm air against your neck as he cries out silently, voice gone.

You can’t help but feel a flash of pride at that, at finally having fucked this loudmouthed bastard into broken, blissful _silence._ And then he moves, drawing back and snapping his hips back into you, and thought becomes an unnecessary process.

There’s a little bliss for yourself in finally letting go of the reins, in finally giving yourself permission to enjoy this man now that he’s paid enough for the privilege. You sink down into the sensation like molasses, body buzzing with drink and pleasure. The way he fills you is just as delicious as you were afraid it would be, the impact off his hips just as bone-rattling. The bed frame creaks and rattles with it – you’re _almost_ sorry for the poor bastards in the room below you.But then he shifts, tucking his knees under you, and the change in angle lights up your nerves like fireworks. Your back arches with it, the first real, unguarded cry of pleasure breaking from you.

Whiskey rears back at the sound, pulling you with him, one arm around your back and the other around your shoulders, hand making a solid fist in your hair. He holds you up easily, like you weigh _nothing_ , keeping you at that low angle that stirs you up so beautifully inside. His thighs tense as he arches into you, pulling you down. 

The fireworks spark off again, chaining up your spine like the puck on a carnival high striker. Each thrust drives you a little higher and a little closer. You chase after it, rolling against him, legs trembling.

 _“Yes,”_ he rasps, vocabulary shrunk down to single syllables. He lowers you down a degree, gets a hand between you and presses down firmly against the soft flesh above your pelvic bone.

You twist in his arms, shuddering as you come, and cry out something even you can’t understand.

He groans, low and deep like he’s been wounded, and rolls forward again, putting you on your back. The bruising impact you expect doesn’t follow. A kiss does, slow and gasping. He asks something, you feel the words against your mouth, but you can’t hear them. He rocks into you slower and slower, straining and shaking. You feel the tremor of muscles in his groin and understand what he had been trying to ask you a moment too late.

_Permission._

He slides free of you, crying out through gritted teeth, and you feel the hot splash of his come against your thighs. Panting, Whiskey buries his face against your neck.

“Tried,” he croaks hoarsely. "Couldn’t.“

"I know,” you mutter, smoothing back his hair.

He rolls, collapsing at your side, head against your breast. There’s a rough feeling of lace scrubbing at your thighs. "Might as well keep those,“ you tell him, listening to your still-thudding heartbeat hitch in the words. "Ruined now.”

Whiskey laughs dryly, clearing his throat. "That ain’t all you ruined tonight, honeybee. Thought you were gonna fuckin’ kill me.“

A lazy, contented grin spreads across your face. "Good.”

It’s quiet for a little while. Just the sound of slowing breaths. Faintly you hear people down the hall, raucous and laughing. Whiskey goes still until the voices fade out, then puts an arm around your waist.

The silence is strangely comfortable. You gaze up at the ceiling, mulling over your words before you say them. “If you’re staying, I’m gonna need you to get your boots off my bed.”

He looks up at you, eyes unfocused, brows hiked up high. “You sure? I figured you’d wanna roll my ass out the door before I had a chance to cover my modesty.”

Unable to help it, you let out a little snort of laughter. "You haven’t _got_ any modesty.“

He smiles drowsily. The corners of his eyes crinkle up. It irritates you how much that look makes you want to kiss him. 

"You got me there,” he says. He sits up, shucking his boots and his jeans and kicking them off onto the floor. Bare now, he curls back up next to you, pressed along your side.

You’re drifting when his voice rumbles up again, sleep-slow and still quite hoarse. “You know, you never did give me permission to come.”

You almost elbow him. "If I didn’t know any better I’d think you _wanted_ me to punish you.“

His cock, curled soft against your hip, gives a slight twitch.

"Don’t suppose you’re still gonna be around tomorrow night?” he asks, crooked grin returning. 

You turn your head, trying not to let him see you smile. "Guess you’ll have to find out.“


	2. Chapter 2

It’s still dark when a faint buzzing wakes you, followed almost immediately by a muffled curse against your back. 

“What the hell-?”

Whiskey gives an irritated grunt. "My phone. _Shit.“_

He gets up, still stark naked, and stumbles across to where his jacket had been discarded, digging through the inside pockets. He punches through whatever message he just received and gives an annoyed little huff. By the blue light of the screen you can see his eyes are far clearer than they should be for a man who just rolled out of bed before the sunrise.

"Time is it?” you groan.

“Quarter-to-five,” Whiskey answers.

“Jesus.” You bury your face back in your pillow, muffling your next words. “Can’t the spy shit wait for daylight?”

He chuckles. "Not according to Ginger, it can’t.“

"Whoozat?”

“Colleague,” he says simply. He bends down over you, nuzzling your ear. "Duty calls, honeybee. I gotta go.“

He presses himself down against you, his morning wood warming your hip. It’s an invitation, maybe even a challenge. _Make me late._ If it weren’t so fucking early and you weren’t so goddamn tired, you might actually take him up on it.

You fumble your hand down, find his hip, and smack a little halfheartedly at his ass. "Lock the door on your way out.”

A chuckle in your ear. "Yes ma'am. If you’ve got the inclination, I’ll catch you at the bar tonight.“

He kisses the smooth patch of skin behind your ear, raising goosebumps. The impulse hits to swat at him. It’s too early for phone calls and conversations, and it’s certainly too early for this man you barely know to give you any desire to drag him back into bed. 

Instead you reach back, ruffling your hand through his hair. "Hmph. See you, cowboy.”

The hairs of his mustache tickle your ear as he smiles, humming. "I hope so.“

There’s a rustling as he pulls his clothes on. You will yourself to close your eyes and drift back off before he gets to the door. It doesn’t work. He’s in your line of sight and you can’t quite help but watch him dress, even if it _is_ so dark that it doesn’t make for as nice of a show as it would be otherwise. There’s a light jingling as he hitches his jeans up and does up his belt. He stops for a moment before dropping down to the floor, rummaging around as though he’s lost something. You _could_ help, but early wake up calls have never done much for your disposition, and you bury yourself a little further into your pillow instead. Sounds filter through as you doze. The rustling of cloth, the whisper of soft rope being pulled free and coiled up. 

The door opens and Whiskey stands there for a moment, an outline in black against the lit hallway. A disheveled version of those black painted plywood silhouettes that always seem to lean up against flea markets and roadside stands in the middle of nowhere. His face is shadowed, but you can feel his eyes on you.

Squinting against the light, you prop yourself up on your elbow. "What is it?”

Whiskey shakes his head. "Nothin’ at all. Just admiring the view before I go.“

The words don’t have the teasing edge you expect. You tell yourself that’s just a byproduct of being woken up so goddamned early, but somehow you’re still glad you can’t quite see his face.

"You’re blinding me, cowboy,” you tell him, unable to put as much annoyance behind the words as you’d like. "And you’re not the only one who’s got to work today.“

Whiskey half-turns, light spilling down the front of him. His shirt, divested of more than a few buttons, hangs open and rumpled under his jacket, the white of it a stark contrast against the tan of his skin. His head dips. You can almost see the corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile. ”‘Course. Sweet dreams, honeybee.“

You slump back down into your pillow. "Don’t die out there.”

“I will do my level best.”

The door clicks shut, leaving you in darkness with the outline of his frame against the doorway stamped in fading colors on your vision.

⁂

The next time you open your eyes it’s considerably lighter, sunlight peeking through the edges of the curtains, and someone is knocking at your door.

Groaning, you roll yourself off the bed, snatching the covers and wrapping them around you. "Who is it?“ you call out with the irritation only the suddenly and involuntarily conscious can muster.

The answer comes muffled through the door: "Room service.”

The wall clock gives the time as 8:15. A marked improvement from the last time, at least. But, Jesus, couldn’t _anybody_ let you sleep?

Scowling rather spectacularly you unlock the door and throw it open. Standing in the hall is a young man barely out of his teens in a hotel uniform with a white-covered cart. When he gets a look at you he blanches, though only a little. It wouldn’t surprise you if this poor kid had seen people answer their doors wearing far less.

“R-room service,” he says again, trying not to look anywhere that might be considered uncouth.

It’s an effort, but you try to soften the thunderous expression you know is on your face. You cross your arms over your chest, pinning the covers in place. When you shake your head you can feel the rough tangle of your hair bob and weave. God, you must look a wreck.

“Wrong room, hon, I didn’t order anything.”

Nor could you afford it anyway, though you don’t bother to add that thought. And what a pity, too. The plates on the cart are covered, but the unmistakable smell of bacon comes wafting up and your stomach growls to life immediately. The conference’s usual spread of danishes and coffee aren’t going to be nearly enough to keep you going this morning.

“Oh, uh…” the young man pulls an envelope from the cart and thrusts it towards you. "It was ordered for you, ma'am. Already paid for.“

Frowning, you take the envelope. It’s hotel stationary, heavy and cream colored. The card inside marked with a heavy, looping scrawl.

_Breakfast is on me, honeybee. You earned it._

"Oh you _asshole,”_ you mutter through a begrudging smile.

The kid blanches, and you flap the card at him. "No, not you, not you, you’re fine. Jesus, come on in.“ You shuffle to the side, tossing the edge of the blanket behind you to keep from tripping as you make your way over to your purse to fish out a tip. The spread is generous but not obscene, laid out on the little table near the window. Bacon and eggs, toast, a bowl of fresh fruit, and a decanter of coffee. Your stomach gives another even more insistent growl, and you push a ten dollar bill into the kid’s hand. Job done, he hurries out, pushing the cart into the hall with a speed that rather exceeds what you’d call professional. 

Closing the door behind him, you comb a hand through the disaster of your hair and head directly toward the overwhelmingly appealing smell of bacon and coffee. Something digs into your heel and you wince, fighting with the coverlet to find what on earth you’ve stepped on. Dropping down to the floor, you find it – a small, pearl-white button. A little smile curls the corner of your mouth as you remember the immensely satisfying sound of buttons popping from the night before. There’s another one nearby, glinting in the light. Two more at the edge of the bed. You gather them up, justifying it as a service to housekeeping. Small objects could damage vacuum cleaners, couldn’t they? 

As your fingers close on the last button, you catch sight of another glint under the bed. This one much too large to be a button. You might’ve missed it if you hadn’t taken the bedding for a cover-up. You stretch your arm underneath the bed, reaching so far your shoulder begins to twinge in protest before your fingers close around the object. You know what you’ve found even before you pull the thing up, recognizing the feel of cold stainless steel. Whiskey’s utterly ridiculous belt buckle flask. The front is engraved, something you hadn’t noted last night. _Statesman – Kentucky – Straight Bourbon Whiskey._

You briefly consider dropping the thing off at the front desk. It’d be an easy enough way to close the door on this brief little affair. But even though you never actually _accepted_ Whiskey’s invitation for tonight, you already know you’re going to turn up.You’d hoped last night’s encounter would’ve broken whatever spell of intrigue he possessed. That once the mystery had been dispelled and he’d proved himself to be every bit the boring shit-kicker you’d expected him to be, you could let housekeeping wash him out of your sheets and be done with it.

But then he’d turned out to be a decent lay. And _then_ he had the audacity to buy you breakfast. The less repugnant he turned out to be, the more it irritated you. Sure, he was still sticking to that ridiculous Redneck James Bond story to cover up whatever he _actually_ did, but it’s not as if you’d bought that anyway.

"Asshole,” you mutter again, knowing full-well how fucking ridiculous it is to be mad at the man for _not_ being a complete piece of shit. And, even more damning, for leaving you actually wanting to see him again.

You stack the flask and the handful of loose buttons on the nightstand. “Only going to return this,” you mutter. "Not to see him. Not to fuck him. Just to return this.“ 

The lie doesn’t sound any more convincing out loud than it did in your head. Especially when you can still feel that pleasant, well-used ache that makes your legs tingle when you walk. Even acknowledging its presence is enough to make that lingering heat kindle up into something much more pressing, and part of you wants nothing more than to throw yourself on the bed and sink your fingers into your cunt until it eases again. 

In protest of this, your stomach gives another growl, loud enough to make you jump. Like it or not, you _do_ have to work today – libido be damned – and like hell you’re going to do it on an empty stomach.

It’s only as you’re slathering butter onto your toast that you pick up on the one thing you _haven’t_ noticed this morning, and a little grin quirks the corner of your mouth. Your dress, shoes, and bra are all still lying on the floor where you left them. Your _panties_ on the other hand, are nowhere to be seen.

⁂

The conference drags on into its fourth day in a parade of excessively bored people in suits and pencil skirts toting stale danishes and overpriced coffee; the only comforts provided to distract you from the mobius circle-jerk of tedious corporate bullshit. Most of the assembly hall does little more than nod blandly as yet another guest speaker goes through their presentation, the topic of which you forget at least six times throughout the course of it. Half of the attendees aren’t even bothering to take notes anymore. The company could’ve filled the room with potted plants in cheap suits and gotten a better result. At least the plants would provide a little oxygen to the atmosphere.

It certainly doesn’t help _your_ case that half of your brain is circling endlessly around Whiskey. You scribble down a set of shorthand bullet points in your notes and try to blink away the image of his arms straining against taut ropes. You sip your coffee and remember the heat of his tongue chasing the taste of his namesake in your mouth. When you cross your legs and feel the deep, pleasant twinge between them, for a split second all you can think about is the way he felt sinking down into you with his teeth against your neck.

The time absolutely crawls by. There’s moments when you half expect to look up at the old analog clock on the wall and see the hands start running backward. Of course _this_ would be the day the presentations run long, wouldn’t it? Restless and fidgety, you eventually give up on your notes completely and just resign your attention to the clock and whatever obscenity your brain wants to conjure up from the night before.

Claudia, one of your only work friends that actually opted to attend this fiasco, gives you increasingly amused looks throughout the morning, glancing up at you over her phone (on which, you can’t help but notice, she has been playing Bejeweled for the past hour with the brightness turned down). After you check the clock for the fifth time in twenty minutes, unable to really keep yourself from sighing angrily through your nose, she shakes her head at you, laughing quietly.

“So what’s his name?” she whispers, leaning over conspiratorially.

You give her a glare, but she only raises her eyebrows expectantly. Goddamn it, why does the entire universe find it so _funny_ when you’re irritated?

“Whiskey,” you mutter back, glowering.

She has to clamp a hand over her mouth to stop a snorting giggle from being loud enough to cause a disruption. “Oh my _god,”_ she sputters. “Are you fucking a _biker?”_

And okay, maybe that is a _little_ funny. You shake your head, mutter back, “Cowboy.”

Claudia grins so wide her shoulders pull up with it. “Save a horse,” she whispers, trying to dodge out of the way when you elbow her to cut off the rest of the joke. Three people behind you simultaneously shush the two of you, and you toss a dirty look over your shoulder, settling back into your seat.

A few seconds go by before Claudia’s leaning back over to quietly add, “The dick must be good to get you this distracted.”

“Shut _up,”_ you shoot back, but you’re already smiling.

When the presentation ends, the entire auditorium raising up on creaking knees to shuffle out to break for lunch, Claudia’s hand clamps down on your arm.

“I’m buying lunch and you’re going to tell me _everything.”_

So you do. Parked in her conservative little hybrid over styrofoam boxes of take out, you tell her. Damn near everything, too. She listens with _rapt_ attention, this not being the first time she’s poked you for details of your love life, such as it is, but judging by the look on her face it’s possibly taken the top spot as the most memorable.

“So you’re gonna see him again,” she says finally as you tell her about Whiskey’s invitation before slipping out the door this morning.

You settle back, trying to make yourself look suitably apathetic before answering in the hopes of not being completely transparent. “I dunno. Maybe.”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh please. You’re _gonna_ see him again. You’ve been spaced out with dickbrain all day, there’s no way you’re turning down that invitation.”

You wave the end of your plastic fork threateningly. “I will stab you, I swear.”

“Not with this many witnesses,” she says with a wave at the horde of pedestrians outside on the sidewalk, blatantly ignoring the shanking motions you make in warning. 

When she doesn’t drop that annoying, _knowing_ look, you start jabbing at your food, rolling a piece of cucumber around the styrofoam. “I mean…ok yeah I _thought_ about it.”

“All morning,” Claudia provides.

“Fuck you,” you counter lightly, and resist the urge to fling the chunk of cucumber at her. “I just…I don’t know. I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Oh my _god,_ why not?” she cries, head thrown back in exasperation.

“Well it’s not exactly fucking _sensible_ , is it?”

“Honey if you were worried about being sensible you wouldn’t have fucked a cowboy you picked up at a hotel bar,” she says with a shake of her head.

“Did you miss the part where he tried to convince me he was _James fucking Bond?_ I mean c'mon Claudia. That’s gotta be…I dunno, some kinda red flag.”

She scoffs, flapping a dismissive hand. “Oh please, when the bullshit’s _that_ obvious I don’t even think it counts. It’s not like you bought it anyway.Besides,honesty is the backbone of a solid _relationship_ , if you’re just poking fun it’s more like a bonus. As long as he’s not married and not a serial killer, who gives a shit? You’re overthinking the shit outta this, hon.”

That’s…well that’s not wrong. It’s honestly irritating how not wrong that is.

When you don’t give a response save for the idle sounds of plastic scratching on your takeout box, Claudia groans. “God are you really gonna make me talk you into getting yourself laid? Okay, if you wanna be rational about it, fine, here’s some rational thought for you.” She pops out her thumb, ticking off digits as she lists. “He’s hot. He likes to eat pussy. He’s a fuckin’ _sub_ , which - holy shit, girl. Holy actual fucking _shit_. Plus he’s packing _and_ he actually knows what to do with it. Oh, _and_ he bought you fuckin’ _breakfast!_ ” She wiggles her fingers as she thrusts her hands out towards you. “Seven outta ten, babe! My god, if _you_ don’t fuck him I’ll do it for you just so I don’t have to eat another shitty continental breakfast.”

You laugh, but there’s a hot flush creeping up your face, and you have to stare out the window for a minute until it starts to wind back. It’s almost successful, until you think of Whiskey again. This time, though, all you think of is him outlined in the door, looking back at you with his face too shaded to see. And then your cheeks flare hot again, not with that lingering sense of want, but with a flighty kind of panic.

And just like that you pin it down, your stomach twisting on itself as you finally put words to that moment of apprehension. Whiskey doesn’t scare you. His lines don’t scare you. The way he fucks you doesn’t even scare you. But that moment that he lingered does. It scares you because you think maybe what was going through his head is the same thing that’s been going through yours, a fine little thread looped around every remembered pleasure: the worry that you’re about to develop a taste for something that you’ll never have the chance to get again. 

Maybe it’s better to leave it. To chalk it up as a fluke and not risk finding out that he’d feel just as good the second time as he did the first. Cut it off now before that lingering taste turns into a full-blown craving.

Claudia sighs, closing her takeaway box. "Look, hon. I’m not trying to tell you what to do. It just sounds to me like you’re overthinking this. You don’t need to be fucking _sensible_ all the goddamn time. So what if you’re thinking with your pussy right now? You had _fun_. He was fun. You have the option to have _more_ fun. You are _entitled_ to have some fun. So, hey: fuck sensibility and have some fucking _fun.“_

You nod. It’s reflex at first, but slowly becomes more deliberate. More sure. "Okay. Yeah. You’re probably right.”

“I am _always_ right, thank-you-very-much,” she corrects, and then promptly shrieks as you launch a slice of cucumber into her hair.

⁂

The trick of it all, you remind yourself that evening as you cross the hotel lobby for the elevator, is not to think about it. Because if you think about it, _really_ think about it, you will find a way to talk yourself out it. Sensibility is as much of a hindrance as a help at times. But you’ve decided now: the absolute _last_ thing you want to be tonight is sensible. You’ve been bored out of your mind all week, and as much as you’re loathe to admit it, Whiskey has been the only bright spot in the whole affair. At least he’s given you something to look forward to, even if it is just the prospect of getting railed until you forget your own name. 

You take the time to change when you make it to your room. Grab yourself a short, but blisteringly hot shower, and conveniently forget your panties when you redress. Eventually you make your way down to the bar with your heart almost strangling you with the way it’s seemingly lodged itself in your throat. Whiskey’s nowhere to be seen, which isn’t a complete surprise. He always seemed to turn up a little late in the evening before. Not wanting to deviate too far from your own habits, if only to make yourself a little easier to spot, you take your familiar place at the far end where you’ve been set up for so many nights in a row. You order your drink, make friends with the closest basket of pretzels, and you wait.

And wait…and wait.

Your eyes are half on the clock and half on the door, flicking back to that last at every sign of movement. Despite the fact that you’re practically nursing your drink, the bartender refills your glass twice over the course of the night. When he offers a third, you shake your head. Your face feels like it’s burning. The bartender nods and wanders away, either oblivious to the growing anger on your face or determined not to end up the recipient of it.

It’s nearly midnight when you finally push yourself off the bar stool, throwing down enough bills to cover your tab and storming off. He stood you up. You cannot fucking _believe_ it. What’s worse is you feel like you _should_ believe it. Should’ve _expected_ it.As if a man that strutted around like a preening rooster and fed you a bullshit James Bond story would have a streak of honesty.

You punch the elevator button hard enough to make your hand tingle, pushing your way through the doors as they open and hitting the button for your floor. The walls of the elevator are mirrored, and you duck your head, not wanting to know what your face looks like just now, twisted up in anger and more than a little shame. The doors hang for a moment before sliding closed. At the last possible second a hand darts in, stopping them. Broad. Tanned. Tattooed. The man of the hour leans through the doors as they retreat, and gives you a grin.

“Room for one more?”

Your stomach does a back flip, blood rushing in so many directions you’re not sure if you’ve got enough left to power a response. If this little scenario had played out even half an hour earlier, you might’ve laughed. Might’ve fallen back into that easy bitchy banter the two of you seemed so good at. Might’ve even kissed him. But not now. Now you’ve built up too much steam, and every little ounce of anger – earned or not – that you’d had percolating for this man since you first laid eyes on him bursts out of your mouth in two words, laced with as much venom as you can muster.

_“Fuck you.”_

You can practically hear the record scratch in his head. The smile falls, eyebrows ratchet up so high you can’t see them for the brim of his hat. It’s satisfying in an awful sort of way. Like scratching an itch hard enough to draw blood. Too late to take it back now, though. You lash out at the elevator panel, punching the button marked _CLOSE DOORS,_ and Whiskey side-steps neatly inside.

“All right,” he says slowly. "That is not exactly the reaction I was hoping for.“

"Yeah, well tough shit, cowboy,” you all but spit, raking a hand through your hair. You keep your eyes down. Forward. Anywhere but on him. It’s hard, too many reflections. Even the distorted shape of his silhouette in the door makes your blood boil.

“I know I’m late,” he starts, hands raised, and the low and placating tone of his voice hits you like lighter fluid on a match.

“You don’t fucking say?”

His hands drop. “Can I at least explain myself?”

Laughing too loud and too sharp, you shrug, shoulders pulling up hard. "Yeah, sure, why not? Let me guess, rough day at Spy HQ? Assassination appointment run over? Or were you just hiding behind the fucking dieffenbachia to see how long I’d stick around before I came to my fucking senses?“ 

The shrill sound of your own voice almost makes you wince. You’re overreacting. It’s not like you’re unaware of it. But you’re pissed off, and worse now, you’ve committed to being pissed off. Backing down now is damn near impossible, never mind actually _apologizing._

Whiskey takes a step forward, his eyes gone all puppy dog again; wide and imploring under twisted brows. "Look, I don’t blame you for thinkin’ the worst. I know I left you waitin’, and I apologize for that -”

You roll your eyes, mouth twisting into a smile that shows too much teeth to be kind. “Christ, y'know what, don’t flatter yourself. I like that bar. The pretzels are nice and they don’t water down the liquor. I didn’t show up for _you.”_

“Oh _h_ _orseshit,”_ he snaps. He doesn’t raise his voice, but there is a whip crack of impatience in it. “If you didn’t want to see me tonight you wouldn’t have turned up at all. You and I _both_ know that.”

Fuming, you jam your hand into your purse, fishing out his flask and tossing it at him hard enough that it hits him square in the chest. He catches it on the rebound.

“Here. You forgot this.”

Whiskey turns it over in his hands, thumping the metal against his palm. “Right. I see,” he says slowly, slipping the flask into his pocket. Under that thick drawl, there’s a twinge of something that might be disappointment. “Just came to do the _decent_ thing and return a man’s property.”

“Yes.” Part of you sinks, screaming in frustration. But it’s like you’re a spectator now, just watching yourself sabotage the only thing that’d brought you a shred of joy all week just because your pride and temper won’t allow any other option.

One hand falls to his hip, the other rubs idly across his mouth. He’s scowling now, quite spectacularly at that, and for a second you think you’ve finally dealt enough of a blow to his pride to piss him off. Then he steps in close, jaw set. The way his eyes travel up and down you sends a flush through your body, and you’re not sure if you want to slap him hard enough to knock the mustache off his face or kiss him until his lips bleed. His gaze lingers at your hip, your curves quite plainly displayed under the tight skirt. He reaches out. The back of his fingernails barely brush the fabric.

“Do you always make returns without any panties on?”

You try to swallow, but find your mouth has gone suddenly bone dry, your throat sticking with a sharp and painful _click_.“Fuck off,” you try to tell him, but it comes out a croak.

“You know what I think?” Whiskey continues, and the tone would nearly be conversational if it weren’t for the way he’s looking at you, eyes perfectly black and hungry under the shade of his hat. "I don’t think you’re just mad because I’m late. I think you’re mad because I can get a rise outta you. Part of you kinda likes it. Enough to wanna come back for a little more of it. And you don’t know what to do about that. Bet you can’t even decide if you wanna throttle me or ride me ‘til you can’t come anymore. Bit of both, maybe, huh?“

Oh fuck _you_ very much, Mister Perceptive. "Christ, you and your fucking ego-”

“Oh to _hell_ with my fucking ego, and yours too.” He leans in close enough that you can smell aftershave and a fainter, acrid smell that, if you weren’t so fucking preoccupied, you might recognize as spent gunpowder. “If you want me to go, just fuckin’ say it. But don’t bullshit a bullshitter. If you wanted rid of me _that_ bad you would’ve tossed me out on my ass last night before I’d even finished coming.”

Your jaw works, and you push yourself a little harder against the handrail just to keep from slapping him. _How dare he-_

How dare he _what_ , exactly? Be right? _Again?_

You clench your jaw, gripping the handrail on the wall tight enough that the corners dig into your fingers. Glare at him like you’re trying to light him on fire. He doesn’t flinch.

“What you did last night…that made for a hell of a first impression,” he says slowly, and the low rasp of his voice almost curls your toes. "One I don’t expect I’m liable to forget this side of fuckin’ doomsday. Shit, I don’t even know your fucking _name_ andI ain’t been able to shake the thought of you all damn day. Now you can believe that or not, and I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t.But the only thing I’m asking from you right now is to be fucking _straight_ with me. If you want me to go, you fucking _tell me_ _,_ and I’m gone. But if you want me to _stay,_ honeybee I swear I will make up for every second you had to wait.“

"Fuck you, Whiskey,” you breathe. It’s all you’ve got left, all you can even think to say, but it’s too soft. It’s too hard _not_ to believe him when he’s looking at you like that. Even if he’s still got your teeth on edge, ready to bite, the fire in your belly is sinking lower every second. And there’s no way to mistake the low rasp of your voice for _anger._

He leans in, hovering barely an inch away from you, and tips your chin up with his knuckle. “That ain’t an answer, honeybee.”

His lip curls into a smirk and for a second all you can think about is running your tongue out to follow the curve of it.

“You can punish me if you like,” he offers in a low, darkly sweet voice. The fingers on your chin trace a path along your jaw, up to your ear, and down the side of your neck as he talks; a three-point constellation drawn in goosebumps. “Lord knows I deserve it. Tie me up again. Ride my tongue until you’ve had your fill and never lay a finger on me. I don’t mind a bit. I’ll probably come in my fucking jeans like a goddamn high school virgin while you do it, too.”

Oh god. It’s too hot. It’s too hot and he’s too close and it feels like there’s no air left. Those words took the last of it and left you with nothing. And then your lungs finally unlock, hitching in air so pitifully _loud_ that for a second his eyes drop first to your mouth and then lower to watch the buttons strain on your blouse.

His tongue brushes up against the back of his bottom lip, a strange gesture, but one you can’t drag your eyes away from. And the bastard just keeps _talking._

“Then again, maybe the way you’ve been acting up you’d be more inclined for a little punishment yourself. I could take you upstairs. Turn you over my knee and put my hand to that pretty little ass until it blushes like a ripe summer peach. I’d bet you’d drip just as much and twice as sweet, too. I’d kill for a taste of you right now. Fuck, if you really want I could just hike that skirt up and fuck you right here and now. I am a flexible man and I am willing to take you any way you’d see fit to let me _._ But _only_ if you let me.I ain’t here to play bullshit games, and I will not take anything you don’t want to give. So I need you to _tell me_ _,_ honeybee. _Do you want this?_ Yes or no?”

Everything inside you burns and twists _._ _Fuck,_ you want that. _All_ of that.And all you have to do to get it is unstick your stubborn, too-sharp tongue and _admit_ that you want it. That even without the excuse of three shots of tequila on top of a few too many cocktails, you _still_ want it.

You’re burning up. There’s sweat on your palms. It squeaks as you twist your hands over the railing. He hasn’t just turned the tables on you, he’s flipped the whole fucking _room_ and cornered you with it. And God help you, it’s infuriating how much you _like_ it.

“Hate you. So much.”

“Hm.” His hand falls away, and you miss the touch instantly. “So you keep sayin’. Decision time, honeybee. You pick or I’m picking for you and we’re _both_ gonna be disappointed in that result.”

There is a long _long_ beat where that threat hangs between you. Any hope that he might just push forward and take you anyway – push you into the wall and fuck you ragged right here and now without another word – bleeds away as you stare him down, your wordless challenge going unanswered. His gaze is iron; hard and unyielding, and you know if you wait even one more second, this… _whatever_ the hell this is, will be over. Permanently.

Swallowing the last of your pride like so much cheap liquor, you seize the front of his shirt, dragging him forward even as he starts to back away.

“Yes. Fucking goddamn it. _Yes,_ I want this.”

“Yeah?” He leans in, nose brushing your cheek. Somehow it’s that little gesture that sets off a bomb’s worth of butterflies in your stomach.

_“Yes.”_

The heat of his hand is almost shocking as it glides up your thigh and underneath your skirt, his thumb stroking up and finding only bare skin. Whiskey grins. “Knew it.”

You choke back a sigh. "Smug bastard.“

"Yes ma'am.” His thumb brushes up and down your slit idly, slow and considering. He glances around, quirks an eyebrow, and offers: “Here?”

Following his glance, you spot the hunk of plastic mounted in the top corner of the elevator. "Camera. Fuck.“

"Sure enough,” he drawls, still grinning. "You want to give the boys 'n’ girls in the security booth a show, or d'you want to go someplace a little more sensible?"

 _Sensible._ God, If he’d chosen any other word, you might’ve agreed. _Private. Safe._ Anything but fucking _sensible._

"Fuck sensibility. Fuck security, too. Just shut up and fuck _me_ _._ _”_

He laughs through your kiss, the touch of his lips too gentle by miles. The last thing you want right now is gentle. You don’t fucking _deserve_ gentleness after all that.And so you rake your teeth across his bottom lip, roll your tongue against his. When you nip at his tongue, Whiskey breaks off, cupping your sex with a warm, calloused hand.

“You’re gonna eat me alive, honeybee,” he growls. He parts you with a thick finger, drawing the pad of it from your entrance to your clit and back again. “Mm, I have been thinkin’ about this all day,” he murmurs before his finger sinks into you.

Sighing, you curl your arms around his neck, knocking his hat off to run your fingers through his hair and muss up that razor-clean side part. His hand works unhurried between your legs. You rock against it, listening to the obscene smacking sound as he works you open.

“All that fuss and you’re wet for me already, darlin’,” Whiskey says wonderingly.

All you can do is groan, chasing the sensation of the heel of his hand pressing against your clit. "Shut up and kiss me.“

You tug at his hair, try to urge him forward, but he doesn’t budge. He sinks down to his knees instead, right hand never leaving the wet heat of your cunt.

"I’ll kiss you, baby,” he says, pushing up your skirt and lifting your right leg over his shoulder. "Don’t you worry.“

And he kisses you: a warm, wet slide of lips and tongue where he’s got you spread. Gasping, you grab the back of his head. He looks up at you, only the crinkles at the corner of his eyes proof of his smile, and his eyes slip closed like a man savoring his favorite meal.

 _"Jesus.”_ The word comes out in a squeak as his mouth works on you, your throat tightening in an effort to keep quiet. A second finger joins the first and you whimper, tightening reflexively against the stretch. _Christ_ those fingers are thick. Shuddering, you work your fingers in his hair and pull him closer, your eyes wandering up to the reflection in the far wall. The view is mesmerizing: your back arched, skirt hiked up to your waist, with Whiskey’s head buried in between your legs like a man trying to slake an ungodly thirst. The view on the left is even better. From there you can watch his mouth work against you, catching a glimpse of his tongue, wet and shining as it slips between your folds. He sways forward on his knees like a charmed snake, a growing bulge straining against the dark blue denim of his jeans.

There’s a gentle _ding_ , and for a moment you’re so scrambled you think maybe your phone’s going off. And then the elevator doors slide open. An older looking gent with a battered briefcase stands frozen on the other side, eyes wide as dinner plates as he takes in the same view you’ve been admiring in the mirrored walls of the elevator. 

For a single spaced-out second the only thing you can think is, _G_ _oing down?_ _,_ which makes you erupt into a fit of breathless, senseless giggles.

The newcomer’s mouth hangs, flapping uselessly over words he can’t quite formulate. He might be trying to apologize for the intrusion or insist you repent and turn to Jesus. You don’t know and you don’t care.

Whiskey looks up at him over the line of your thigh, lips glistening. "Get the next one,“ he snarls, and punches the _CLOSE DOORS_ button.

He plants a rough, sucking kiss at the top of your cleft as the doors close again, utterly unperturbed. "Penthouse, darlin’, if you please.”

Oh he _would_ be in the fucking penthouse, wouldn’t he?Panting, you fumble a hand out trying to find the button just as Whiskey slides in a third finger and you cry out, almost swiping every button in the center row by accident.

The elevator hums to life and begins to move. The red light on the security camera flashes benignly and you stare at it for a long beat while Whiskey gets right back to work, moaning hungrily between your legs. Someone’s watching this. The thought excites you more than it should, adding fuel to the already roaring fire Whiskey is so eagerly stoking with his tongue. You roll your hips, swearing roundly. It’s not enough. It’s fucking _glorious_ , but it’s not enough. You know what you need.

“Fuck me,” you gasp. "Goddamn it, Whiskey, gimme your cock.“

He glances up at you through thick lashes, eyebrows raised. "Is that what you want, honeybee?” he asks.

You bear down on his fingers _hard_ as if to answer and he clenches right back, thumb and pinky giving him leverage against your pubic bone as he grips you tight, fingers stroking along your walls. It’s only by virtue of the handrail and the support of his shoulder that you don’t sink straight to the floor. _Christ_ that backfired.

You nod fervently, head spinning.

A roll of his shoulder unseats your leg, and he stands. His left hand wraps around your throat, thumb against your jawline, and that’s so fucking _perfect_ you can’t stop yourself from whimpering. In a flare of desperation you grasp his wrist, urging him to grip your neck just a little _tighter._ Chuckling, he brushes his lips against yours – soft and strangely tender – while he fucks you steadily with his fingers.

“Shoulda known you’d like that. Well? Cat got your tongue? Come on, darlin’, lemme hear it.”

_“Yes.”_

_“_ _Louder._ Tell me you want me to fuck you.”

“Oh god-d-d- _damn_ _it!”_

He chuckles darkly, fingers coaxing inside you. "You can do it, honeybee. I know you want it. I just need hear you _say_ it.“

You bare your teeth. "I want you to fuck me.”

“Good girl.” He grins down at you, wide and wolfish. "Now: ask me _nicely.“_

Oh he _would_ , wouldn’t he?

"B _-b_ _astard_ _,”_ you snarl, then begin to laugh.

“Oh come on now,” he croons, eyes darting between your lips and your own heavy-lidded stare. “I’m sure you can get along without your pride for an hour or two. It ain’t so bad. And I promise I’ll make it worth your while. C'mon.”

You groan, grit your teeth, and hiss out: “Please.”

He crooks his fingers and you gasp like you’ve been burned. "'Please’ what?“

"Please fuck me. _Please_ fuck me.”

He slots your trembling thigh between his legs, pressing the clothed, solid length of his cock against you. "With this? Hm?“

 _"Fuck,_ yes.” You writhe, feel it twitch, and he rolls against you in response. 

“Come for me first, honeybee. Then I’ll fill you up good and proper. Cross my heart.”

His fingers press into you harder, spreading gently as he draws them back. Your legs begin to shake so badly that he has to pin you to the wall to hold you up. The rail digs into your back. You’ll bruise tomorrow, but you’re not sure you’ve ever cared less in your life. 

“You gonna come, for me?” he asks, rutting a little more enthusiastically against you when he feels you begin to tense and flutter around his fingers.

Squeezing your eyes shut tight, you nod, feeling the drag of his lips on your cheek. 

“Uh-uh. Talk to me, darlin’, I wanna _hear_ it. I want you to tell me every single time you’re gonna come, you understand me? Count them out. Let’s see just how many you got in you tonight.”

“Oh you _ass!”_ You moan and laugh all in the same breath. 

“You like it,” he says simply. 

He kisses you, warm and deep, and you bite his lip for the audacity. "Don’t stop. _Fuck_ , I’m close.“

He turns your head, slides his hand around to cup the back of your neck. "Open your eyes, honeybee. Watch yourself.”

You try. Everything’s a blur; inside and out. Fuzzy and disconnected and _hot._ Blinking to clear the fog, you can see your reflection caught between the wall and Whiskey’s body. Your eyes are dazed, unfocused. His cheek is against yours, a look of utterly indecent hunger on his face, lips red and swollen where you’ve bitten him. He’s pressed up against you too tightly to get a good view, but you can see his arm pinned between your bodies, and the flex of muscles working underneath his jacket.

There is, you note with a fuzzy sort of disconnect, a small, ragged hole in the arm of his jacket.

But before you can put any more thought to this discovery he presses his thumb down against your clit – no friction, only a firm, rolling pressure – and that’s all you need. If it wasn’t for the his body against yours, you’d buckle. As it is, trapped between him and the wall, all you can do is quake and cry out, arms tightening around his shoulders as you come.

He hums indulgently, kissing your cheek. "Count it out.“

Panting, you pull hard on his hair until he groans. _"One.”_

“Good girl,” he murmurs. Slowly his hand withdraws, giving one last slow swirl over your folds before he sucks you greedily off his fingers.

There’s the muffled sound of a zipper and you could almost laugh – _finally!_ But then the elevator slows and stops, doors sliding open with a soft _ding_ _._ Whiskey glances sidelong at the open door, corner of his mouth pulling up in a half-cocked grin. The disappointed whine you give as you hear him zip himself right back up is wholly involuntary.

“Well wouldn’t you know it,” he says, pulling away from you and stooping for his hat. It’s all you can do not to whack him on the back of the head – or on the ass – as he turns away, wiggling your skirt back down over your hips instead.

He gives a ridiculous wink towards the security camera with his hat held to his chest. Your stomach gives a neat little flip as you look up at that blinking red light – god, you’d forgotten it was even _there._

“Sorry to blue-ball ya and run, fellas.” He gets an arm around your waist, tugging you into the hall at an easy, languid pace, as if nothing had happened. As if your legs weren’t still quivering, with the evidence of your orgasm running in sticky trails down the inside of your thighs.

“Betcha money, marbles, or chalk they’ll be jerkin’ off over that for weeks,” he says jovially, pulling you to his hip when he feels you start to wobble. “C'mon. Let me get you in a bed before I say to hell with it all and fuck you out here on the goddamn floor.”

Your knees tremble again; at least one part of you has full support of that particular idea. As the door opens you pull him back to your mouth, kissing him hard even as he steers you by the hips through the suite. You barely see any of it. Recessed halogen lights. The sparkle of painstakingly cleaned glass and marble. Little else. A grunt escapes you as you fetch up hard against the wall and Whiskey crashes into you. The sudden pressure against his groin leaves him winded, rocking forward against you with a shuddering groan.

“Tell me how you want it,” he says, words mangled against your mouth. The salt-musk taste of you still clings to his tongue, sharp against some faint remnant of sweet mint.

One hand slips down, squeezing your breast through the material of your blouse. The room spins giddily like a tilt-a-whirl, still riding the coattails of your last orgasm. _“Hard_ _,”_ you breathe. The skirt you chose is too fucking tight, and you have to reach down to drag it back up your thigh just to hook a leg around him. "Don’t you dare be gentle.“

He chuckles as you press into him. "How hard is hard? I can be a little rough if you let me off the leash.”

Frustrated, you slip your hands under his sports coat, nails biting into his shoulders through his dress shirt. "Fuck, do I have to spell it out for you?“

"Yeah,” he says, and his voice has reached that breathy, sonorous pitch that sends a hot-cold shiver rocketing down your spine. "Yeah you do. A little honesty would be appreciated tonight.“

One good shove and his jacket slips to the floor. "That’s funny coming from Double-O-Cowpoke.”

“Not my fault you don’t believe me.” It’s pitched like a joke, light and breezy, but there’s something in his eyes. Sharp and peculiar and gone almost before you can be sure it was really there, but makes your stomach clench with a sudden surety that the next words out of his mouth are completely genuine. "I ain’t lied to you yet, honeybee.“

And that almost brings you to a halt. Your hands splay out on his shoulders, pushing back to look at him more clearly. If that’s true. _If_ that’s true…oh god, why would he have told you?

The question is halfway to your lips before he surges his way forward again, his mouth crashing into yours and kissing you hard and urgent and bruising. A faint sound of protest rises in your throat and you push back a little, not wanting him to stop but wanting him to _wait_ because…because….

And the rest of that thought flutters away. He doesn’t stop kissing you. He just doesn’t stop. And he’s moaning as his tongue licks into your mouth and his teeth scrape over your lips like it’s the most decadent thing in the world. You grasp at his face, wrists caging in his neck, feeling his pulse race along next to your at such a frantic speed it’s almost alarming. Your last little shred of rational thought all but begs you to push him back a little harder, to make him look at you and ask him what’s _wrong…_ and then it just flutters away because _God_ this is what you want. This. This, this, _this_ _._

"You want it hard?” he rasps into your mouth, rutting up against you hard enough to drive you back into the wall.

Breathless, you nod. Work your fingers through the mess you’ve made of his hair. “Ruined _you_ last night, didn’t I?” You tighten your grip, use your knuckles for leverage and _pull._

Whiskey groans, slipping his hands under the bunched hem of your skirt to grip your ass and grind you down against him. "Goddamn right you did, honeybee.“

"So ruin me back.” The thick denim that covers his fly is rough, but you rub against it all the same, shuddering at the coarseness against your tender skin. "Fair is fair. Right?“

His eyes slip closed and he buries his face against your neck for a moment, breathing unsteady. "Jesus, girl, you’re gonna soak straight through my jeans,” he mutters. “All right, honeybee. All right. _I_ only got one rule. If I do anything you _don’t_ want, you tell me. 'Cause I ain’t stopping unless you do. Not tonight. Got it?”

“Whiskey-”

He gets a grip on your chin, levels your eyes on his. "You tell me 'no’ or you tell me 'stop.’ _Got it?“_

"Yes.” Patience exhausted, you wrench his belt open. “Now _come on_ _.”_

Buttons patter to the floor as he tears open your blouse. And that’s good. That’s _fair._ And what’s even better is the rough way he puts his hands on you, yanking your bra down to knead and squeeze your bare breasts. When you finally free his cock there’s only a brief moment to savor the warm, solid length in your grip before his fingers clamp down on your nipples. The sensation is so sharp and bright and sudden that you yelp, arching up on your tip-toes.

“Hands off, honeybee,” he warns.

Whimpering, you flatten your hands against the wall.

“Too much?” he asks softly, that funny little furrow deepening between his eyebrows.

A groaning laugh slips out of you, and you arch your back, pushing your breasts against his hands. "Not enough.“

"Fuck, ain’t you just the sweetest, _dirtiest_ thing.” He twists and you cry out, hips bucking forward. His cock drags against your hip and you chase it, trying to pin it between you.

“Oh, _c'mon._ You _promised,”_ you whine.

“Oh I’m gonna keep my promise, baby, don’t you fret. I want you just as fucked-out as you had me. Wanna see you so goddamn cock dumb your eyes roll back. Bet you’ve been thinking about this all day, too, haven’t you?”

The wall warms under your hands as you fight not to push back more. And maybe that’s what does it. A little mental-short circuit. Because God knows you haven’t been able to think of a single fucking thing other than this. But the denial is on your lips so fast it must be involuntary, a reflexive need to find his buttons and push: “You wish.” 

Whiskey raises an eyebrow, lip curling. For a second he’s amused, seeing the game you want to play. And then it’s like a switch flips. Suddenly this isn’t the man who’d begged for the privilege of fucking you last night. This isn’t even the man who’d put his grateful mouth to your cunt in the elevator. This is the man he’d _pretended_ to be right up until you got his hands tied. The cowboy get up wasn’t the costume – _this_ is. This smile. This infuriating swagger.

“Oh, really?” he says, and for the first time you realize just how much that drawl had begun to soften around you, because now that dial’s ramped right back up to 11. "You turn up tonight without any goddamn panties on, ride my fingers like a coin-op pony, beggin’ to get fucked all the while, and then you try and tell me you ain’t been thinkin’ about me? I felt how hard you came. How fucking wet you were.“ His hand darts between your legs as quick a snake-strike, fingers carding through your folds. _"Are._ Ain’t no face left to save, darlin’.”

He’s in your space, radiating heat, his fingers stroking against your swollen sex, stoking your own fire all over again. But the fire those words kindle burns a little quicker and a little hotter. Without a second thought you strike out, palm tingling as it finds its target against his cheek.

For a moment Whiskey doesn’t even seem to breathe. He just stands there leaning heavy against you with his eyes closed and his nostrils flaring. Redness blooms against his cheek. When his eyes open again, the way they bore into you, glittering and eager takes your own breath away.

He hums, that low, pleased sound. But now it slips lower and lower into a breathy rumble that lances straight through you. "Do it _again.“_

Swallowing hard, you slap him again. Harder this time. For a moment the only reaction he gives is the way his cock bobs sharply, slapping against your thigh.

Then he _growls_ , seizing the back of your neck and crushing you to him. You crane up, half expecting a kiss, but his thumb snags the corner of your mouth. He drags it open until your jaw hangs, tilting your head back. A choked sound that’s a little too plaintive to be a protest slips from your open mouth a second before Whiskey spits into it.

_"Swallow.”_

You do, sucking hard on his thumb for good measure.

“You nasty little thing,” Whiskey says, his voice slow and dark as molasses. His eyes glaze over a little as he works the ball of his thumb against your tongue, watching the way your lips purse around it. “Maybe you _a_ _re_ the one that needs the punishin’.”

He leans against you, breathing hard as he considers this thought. You frown a little, catching his thumb with your teeth, hoping he’ll get the hint and give you something better to put in your mouth. But then his grip loosens, one hand disappearing behind you. Hints, it appears, are completely off the table tonight.

“In,” he growls, throwing open the bedroom door. “Now.”

Whiskey leads you inside, hitting the lights with his elbow. The room is furnished in that same drab but sparkling minimal style, an _impressively_ large bed swallowing up the majority of the space. One wall is nothing but windows behind drawn shades, a sliding door leading out to a small, isolated balcony.

He steers you directly to the bed, sitting on the edge and pulling you across his lap to straddle his knee. You let out an indignant little yelp at the treatment, but then he shifts his leg under you and the indignance crumbles. It presses against your mound just right, urging you open, and you grind down with a gasp, trying to find a little relief.

Whiskey tuts. "Oh now look at that. Try to tell me you ain’t been thinkin’ about takin’ my dick and then rub on me like a goddamn cat in heat.“ 

There’s the sound of a zipper – not his this time, but your own – and then a little tickle at your hip as he undoes the skirt and wrestles it down your legs. He pushes your blouse up, bunching the material up around your shoulder blades. For a second you think he means to pull it off, but then he twists the fabric around his hand. The garment draws up tight, leaving your arms, still in the sleeves, pinned to your sides. 

You moan a little when you feel his hand slide across your ass. He bends over you, and you feel the wet heat of his mouth against your ass cheek. A sweet, languid swirl of his tongue before he bites down. You jerk hard enough that your clit drags against the rough weave of his jeans and you cry out, the sound muted by the bedspread.

The pressure of his knee aches beautifully against your cunt, your breathing so shallow and quick it makes you lightheaded. You know what’s coming, and you know what you asked for. The last thing you wanted was to be sensible. And this – well this might be the least sensible thing you’ve ever done. 

You buck your hips up sharply. Searching for his hand. "Do it.”

The first strikes are quick and brisk. They tingle, warming your skin, but don’t _hurt_. Not yet. This is just a tease of the real thing. A warm up. The tips of his fingers trace the first reddening outline of his hand against your skin, a match for the not-yet faded print against his cheek. Crooning, he kneads your buttocks, spreading them apart, making the slick folds of your pussy slide against each other.

“Sweet Jesus will you look at that. Open that up, baby. Lemme see just how fuckin’ _wet_ that gorgeous little pussy is.”

You gasp, grinding down again, and then first _real_ slap lands across your ass, unexpected and jarring. The sting is enough to make your eyes water, but the impact drives you forward, almost encouraging your hips to grind into him. A second strike lands on the other cheek, then back to the first, alternating each time. You rock with it, caught between the hot stinging slap of skin on skin and the building heat between your legs.

“This what you wanted?” _Crack._

_“Fuck!”_

“Is it?” he demands. His hand descends again. _Crack._

“Yes!” You kick out, struggling not because you want to, but because you _have_ to. And it only makes it worse. Or better, or – God, you don’t even _know_ now. It’s more. It’s just _more._ His knee digs in harder and your poor neglected cunt throbs with a misplaced ache and you swear you have never needed to feel yourself filled up more than you do right now.

“You gonna _behave?” Crack._ “You gonna stop _lyin’_ to me now?” _CRACK._

 _“Ye_ _s_ _!”_ The word leaves you in a shuddering sob, thighs clamping down around Whiskey’s leg. One more, God help you, one more and you’ll tip over, you’ll come all over his knee, you’re so _close._

And then he stops, rubbing and kneading the hot flushed skin, and you whine in desperate frustration as your orgasm begins to retreat.

“Goddamn. Prettier than a Georgia peach,” Whiskey says thickly. His hand strays, slips down between your cheeks and presses against the splayed lips of your pussy. You writhe under the sudden attention, feeling the tips of his fingers slide around your clit. “And damned if you don’t drip twice as sweet.”

 _“Please.”_ Warmth trickles from the corner of your eyes, blooming against the bedspread.

The swirl of his hand is lazy, almost soothing but for the way it keeps you so frighteningly close to the edge. “Truth first, honeybee. C'mon. You know what I wanna hear.”

“Ye-yes,” you mutter. "Goddamn it _yes._ I’ve been thinking about fucking you all day. All goddamned day…God, Jesus, fuck, and then you didn’t _show_ _._ Thought you’d ditched me. Made me want - want it and then _ditch me.“_

You bury your face in the quilt. It’s a fucking cop out and you know it. You don’t just want _it._ You want _him._ Fuck, what is happening?

Again you feel his mouth against your ass cheek, open and wet, but this time his tongue is almost cool by comparison. "There now. I didn’t ditch you, baby. Wouldn’t fuckin’ dream of it.” His voice is low now, placating, nearly apologetic. And then his fingers are slipping inside you again, stroking and curling. “I’m right here here, baby. Right here. Just a little late, is all.”

You whine, trying to wriggle back to drive him in deeper. Those thick fingers are like fucking _magic_ but you need more than they can provide. Desperate now, you clutch your fingers back towards him, find his shirttail and tug at it. “Jack. _Please.”_

It doesn’t even register to you that you’ve called him by his name – God, you didn’t even think you _remembered_ his name _–_ until the fingers inside you still. If it wasn’t for the hammering of your heart in your ears you might’ve heard his breath catch.

Slowly he twists his fingers inside you, pressing down until you shudder. “What is it, honeybee?” he mutters. The hoarseness in his voice is familiar. You wish you could see his face. “Tell me what you want.”

“Please fuck me. _Please._ I waited all fucking _night_ _._ _”_

He rolls you off his lap, leaving you dangling half off the bed and folds over you, cock nestled against the heat of your reddened ass. There’s a sticky slide to it; you’re not the only one that’s wet.

“Hand to God, baby, I’ll make it worth every minute. On my fuckin’ _life._ _”_ The pained edge in his voice sets the room spinning, and for one mad moment you find yourself trying to grab onto the bedspread to keep from rolling away. Whiskey leaves a kiss against the back of your neck before he draws back, the hand fisted in your shirt tugging you along just a bit.

There’s a long, wavering moment when his touch leaves you entirely and you almost protest before you hear him frantically shedding his clothes behind you. Then his hands return, his left winding back into your shirt, his right warm and strong against your back. The blunt, weeping head of his cock nudges between the swollen lips of your pussy. He stays there for an infuriatingly long moment, enough that you cry out your frustration into the bedclothes. 

And then he _finally_ makes good on his promise.

You go up on your toes, legs straining as he breaches you. After all the hours you spent thinking about it, all the hours you waited, it’s _bliss_ _._ But the pure, unadulterated stretch of it laces that bliss with a white-hot line of fire that only serves to make it all the more urgent. Maybe it’s the angle, bent in half with your ass up and your legs closed. Maybe it’s just how overwrought you are already. Maybe…fuck, you don’t know, maybe somehow he’s even _harder_ than the night before. All you _do_ know is that he feels so big you can’t hardly stand it. It’s _so much_ , bridging the gap between pleasure and pain until it’s just an overwhelming sense of _pressure_ and _fullness_ that has you clenching and fluttering around him. As if your body can’t make up its mind if it wants to expel the intrusion or welcome it deeper.

He has no _right_ to feel this good. None. But goddamn it you’re so glad he does.

“Fuck,” he mutters shakily, fingers biting into your hip. “This what you wanted, honeybee? Huh? This what you been waiting for?”

You can’t find the air to give him an answer. Whiskey’s still moving forward, you’re not even sure how. Christ how much more of him _is_ there? He leans forward, pushing you into the mattress, pushing down _into_ you until you start to shake, until he hits that buried junction inside you that sends a flare of heat rocketing clear down to your toes and your stalled orgasm rears up again so sudden and so close that it’s startling.

Every muscle in your body tenses, straining. The whine that breaks out of your gaping mouth is pitiful. _“Shit, oh shit,_ _Jesus fuck, Jesus_ _fuck-fuck-fuck-”_

He feels it. He must. There’s no way he _can’t_. “Oh fuck, that’s it honeybee,” he croons, working his free hand under you to circle your clit as he sinks that last broad inch into you. “Come on. Come all fuckin’ _over_ me.”

For a second everything shorts out, all senses lost in a white-out. The only tenuous connection you have to your body lies in the grounding pressure of his cock inside you and the faint but rapid fluttering of his pulse in it. And then you’re slamming back to yourself with a ragged cry, blood roaring in your ears and coming so hard that you nearly buck off of him entirely. Your arms flex, bend, bunched cloth digging deeply into your skin until you feel rather than hear the seams rip. And then the tightness is gone, Whiskey’s hand unwinding immediately from your shirt to stroke up and down your back.

There’s a lump in your throat when you finally find enough air to speak: “T-t-two.”

Whiskey groans. _“Beautiful._ Fuck, you shake so pretty when you come for me. I could watch you do that all night. Might just, at that.” He drags the torn wreck of your blouse off you, popping the clasp on your bra and bending to place an open, humid kiss in the valley along your spine.

He rocks forward and back, one hand clamped into soft flesh at your hip, humming tunelessly. “Been wantin’ to bury myself back in this sweet pussy from the minute I woke up. Ain’t been able to think of _nothin’_ else. _Just_ this,” he says, drawing back slowly before burying himself to the hilt and rolling his hips against you.

You clamp your teeth down on your lip, fighting the haze. It’s hard to swallow. Hard to breathe. But he’s rolling into you _slow_ , far too fucking slow. And that isn’t what you need. You try to push yourself up on your elbows, but he thrusts forward, a little more force in it this time, and your arms give out. 

_“Ha-harder,”_ you pant, voice thick and muffled by the quilt. You turn your head, claw the hair out of your face. “F-fuck me _harder_ , god-d-d- _damn it_. Make me fuckin’ _feel_ it tomorrow. Big-dicked b-bastard, oh my _God, don’t you stop.”_

He breathes out a laugh, folding over your back. The pressure against your tender ass stings like hell, and you hitch in a hissing gasp as Whiskey’s mouth finds your cheek. He kisses you, or does his best to. The angle is strange and your face is half-smashed against the bed, but his mouth slants over the side of yours, tongue dragging against your lips until you open for him, letting him lick against the sharp points of your teeth. 

“Careful what you wish for, honeybee,” he whispers, grinding forward in a maddening circle. “Words like that will get you in a whole _mess_ of trouble.”

The air leaves you in a whooping rush as he stands, dragging you up against his chest, your back bowing to try and keep the searing length of him pressed where you need it. And then – ah _g_ _od_ _–_ his hand is around your throat and his teeth are sinking into your shoulder, and you’re suddenly glad he can’t see the way your eyes flutter and roll back. 

Not that he even needs to see it, because just then Whiskey groans into your skin as a rush of wetness courses down his cock.

“Fuck, is it that good, baby? Hm?” His voice quavers as his body impacts yours like a sledgehammer. “My dick finding _all_ the sweet spots in that pretty little pussy for you?”

You grapple at him, find where he clings to you and grip his hands, inadvertently encouraging him to press his hand just a little harder against your throat. And there goes the room again, looping and floating as he starts to move, _really_ move, driving forward harder and harder. You stumble, going up on your toes, some choked and desperate noise caught in your throat somewhere under his hand. Sparks pop behind your eyes, faint and wavering like fireworks reflected on choppy waters. And then the pressure eases, air rushing into your lungs once again. The fire in your belly _flares_ up at it like a backdraft.

“M-more,” you grate out. “Oh f-fucking _God_ please more. D-don’t…d-d-don’t-”

“Don’t you worry, baby. Ain’t gonna stop,” he mutters harshly against your ear. "I’ll give you all you want. Ain’t stopping 'til you _tell_ me to stop.“

You shake your head, or at least try to, the movement restricted by his hand. "N-no. Never. Fuck, never-never stop. Right _there f-fuck_ _-”_

Whiskey growls out something low and broken and unintelligible as you clamp down on him, your body chasing that bright, blazing heat whether you want it to or not.

“Oh _fuck_ , are you comin’ again for me already, angel? _Shit_ _,_ you are, aren’t you? Got yourself all riled up today and now you just can’t stop. C'mon then, baby. Come on my dick. You feel like fuckin’ _heaven_ when you come. Pussy’s so good it oughtta be fuckin’ blasphemy. C'mon, honeybee, do it for me, come like you fuckin’ _mean_ it-”

Before you can breathe a word it hits you and it hits you _hard_ , muscles seizing up so tight it’s like they’re trying to _wring_ the pleasure out of you. You ride through maybe three or four near-blinding shocks of it and then your knees, traitorous things, finally give out underneath you. The only thing that keeps you up is Whiskey’s arms wrapped tight around you, clutching you to him, suspending you on his dick as it grinds up brutally against your g-spot.

“Got you, honeybee,” he grunts, rhythm never faltering. “I got you. Keep comin’ for me, baby, keep comin’.”

And god help you, you are. You’re still quivering, still _coming_ , and then his hand falls away from your neck to cup against your sex, palm flat against the rigid little knot of your clit. He doesn’t even _rub_ , it’s just a heat and a pressure and it’s like your whole body stutters upward, launching towards a second, higher peak. Whiskey lets out a broken groan against your neck as you bear down on him so hard it nearly hurts and you _wail_ at the unexpected, overwhelming force of it.

Everything spins off and away in the aftermath, senses blown out like a bad circuit. Sounds are swallowed up in a high, persistent ringing. You haven’t got the strength to force your eyes back open. There’s a shift and a feeling of soft cloth beneath you and when the haze starts to lift you find you’re on your knees on the bed, shoulders down and ass up with Whiskey draped over your back. He murmurs things against your cheek, your ear, your neck. You can’t hear a word of it over the ringing in your ears.

You turn your head, knocking your forehead against his by accident. “Thr- I- f-four?” Your voice jumps in your throat, but you can’t quite make it steadier. “I…I don’t-”

“Honey _bee,”_ he drawls, his cock giving a hard, desperate twitch inside you. He grins at you indulgently, gathering your hair up in one broad hand and pulling. “Good girl.”

A shudder goes through you as you realize he’s _still_ fucking you. Deep, swift strokes that send tingles sparking through you. He drags his cock out of you and drives it back in, pulling it over your blazingly sensitive nerve endings like a bow over violin strings. Like it’s a privilege to do it. Like it’d be a fucking _crime_ to stop.

He drags two more orgasms out of you like this. Shuddering, slow-building things that overtake you like flood waters, rising up with an aching, consuming crawl unmindful of the pounding pace Whiskey holds to like a clockwork battering ram. It’s only when you gasp out a broken cry of _“S-sih-s-six!”_ that Whiskey’s hips finally begin to falter, stuttering and slowing at the feeling of your overworked pussy milking his cock _again_. His grip on you tightens as he tries to steady himself, tries to hold on, groaning his own restrained pleasure through gritted teeth.

 _“Tight - fuck!_ Goddamn it girl you get so fucking _tight_ when you come. _So_ fuckin’ wet. Sweet _Jesus._ I don’t know how m-much more of that I can fuckin’ _take.”_

“God, fuck, do it, just do it,” you whine, reaching back for him with hands that can’t stop shaking. “C'mon Jack.”

He laughs at that, but it’s a little frayed and frantic at the edges. He brushes the hair out of your face, working his fingers into it and giving it a tug. “I – _ungh!_ Oh _s_ _-s_ _hit_ _–_ I got… your p-permission this time, honeybee?”

You hum, nodding, and hitch in a breath as he grinds in particularly deep. “Please.”

His rhythm falters again, hips canting suddenly at a hard angle. “W-where? Fuck, _fuck_ , where do you want me, baby? _Hurry.”_

“In-inside. Inside me. ’S what you wanted last night? Right?”

Whiskey makes a broken sound, lurching against you. “Y-yeah. Oh _shit_ , yes _._ Jesus fucking _Christ_ , honeybee.”

Growling, he flips you over and slides in _deep_ , pushing your knees up almost to your shoulders and staring raptly down at your face even as his own contorts. The length of him inside you stiffens even _more,_ pushing in so deep his hipbones grind painfully against your own.

And then he breaks with a cry, his whole body locking up with the force of his climax. His head drops between your breasts and his back arches high, fists punching deep divots into the mattress on either side of you. He rocks through it, jerking at every pulse and spasm, and you can’t help but shiver at the warmth that pools inside you as he comes.

“Fuck, _fuck_. Nngh, ho-holy _shit._ _”_ He almost says more, but another tremor wracks his body and it chokes off into a broken mess of Spanish - _“_ _¿_ _Que chingas me estás haciendo a mi mujer?”_

Winded and boneless, you scratch your nails weakly across his scalp, working your fingers down his neck to his shoulders. "Better be a compliment.“

"You have no idea,” he pants open-mouthed against your skin. Instead of elaborating he just eases himself out of you and crawls his way down, trailing his mouth over your skin until he’s settled between your legs, staring at whatever disaster he’s made of you and groaning softly in appreciation.

 _Take a picture,_ you almost say, _it’ll last longer._ But before you can work up the air and energy to put breath to the quip he’s drawing his tongue against you, cleaning up the mess he’s made with a desperate, greedy reverence that sets your knees trembling on either side of his head.

Whimpering, you clamp your lower lip in your teeth, shuddering up against the warm heat of Whiskey’s mouth. "Careful,“ you warn. "Oh, G-God, _careful.”_

The only answer you get is a low moan and the feeling of his fingers sinking diligently back into your cunt, coaxing out the trickling remnants of his orgasm.

A high, lazy heat begins to build again, over-sensitivity easing back into something warm and sweet and giddily aching. Your hands cradle the back of Whiskey’s head, carding through his sweat-soaked hair as he licks his own come out of you. It’s not a thing you’ve ever really given much thought before – bodily fluids were always more an incidental part of sex for you than anything else – and you’re not sure if he’s enjoying the act itself or just the strange submissive edge of it. Curiosity gets the better of you and you glance down at him, expecting to see him staring intently up at you over the rise of your _mons_ , gloating over the state he’s put you in. Fuck, he’s made you come so many times you’re sure he’ll never let you forget it.

Only he isn’t. His eyes are closed, face lax with a blissful intoxication as he tastes himself inside you, holding your thighs up and apart to let him work his tongue and fingers in deeper. The sight of him so clearly lost in the moment, not goading or gloating, just rapturously _gone_ is maybe the single most erotic thing you’ve seen in your whole life. And that sweet, lazy heat suddenly licks up to a blaze.

The sudden clench you give is impossible to miss from Whiskey’s vantage point, and he groans against you. "One more, honeybee,“ he almost pleads, breaking away from you with a sucking _pop_ just long enough to gasp air. "You can gimme one more, can’t you? I know you can. C'mon baby. Lucky seven.”

He lowers his head once more with a decadent hum and you throw yours back as he sets to more deliberate work, hooking his arms around your thighs to keep you right where he wants you. 

“God, you greedy b-bastard,” you rasp out. The stimulation to your worn nerves leaves you quaking, wriggling underneath him. You’re not sure you can _stand_ another one, but a deep, hungry part of you is desperate to find out. 

He growls at that, more in agreement than in offense, and when your hands scrabble at his he parries them without even glancing up, seizing your wrists and yanking you down even tighter against his mouth.

You nearly kick him in the ribs when you come. It’s not your fault. Honestly it’s _his_ for working you up to this point. To this high, nervous overload that’s barely left you any control over your body. It doesn’t seem to faze him, though. Your heel glances off his side as your shaking legs lock around his back and he just keeps going, like he hasn’t even noticed, like he isn’t even _here._ Like the world has spun down smaller and smaller and the only thing left is his mouth and your cunt and leaving that would mean the end of everything.

But it’s too much. Goddamn it, it’s too much.

You sob, wrench your hands out of his grip and push at his head. _“S-s-seven._ Sev-seven. F-f- _fuck,_ Jack. No more, n-no more, please, stop, I can’t, I _can't– ”_

He’s pulling away before you even finish, pressing one last biting kiss against your thigh before crawling shakily over you to put his mouth to yours with a surprising gentleness. The taste on his lips is heady, musky and sharp. His arms tremble at the strain of keeping himself from slumping over on top of you, gasping raggedly between each kiss like they’re just as necessary as air.

For the longest time you can’t even move, you’re far too wrung out and exhausted to even try. All you can do is lie underneath him and do your best to remember how to breathe between slow, lazy kisses. Eventually you work up enough breath to speak. “’M sorry,” you whisper hoarsely.

Whiskey shakes his head, trying to focus his eyes. "What for?“

”'Two minutes and a cigarette.’“ You bring up a hand, patting his cheek with an awkward bonk. "I stand corrected”

A look of comical confusion takes over his face, brows knitting together, until he finally remembers the jab you’d made after you’d tied him up the night before. _“Shit,”_ is all he says before he dissolves into giddy laughter. His arms finally give out on him and he rolls to keep from toppling onto you. 

You roll with him, tucking your head into his shoulder and giggling. It _aches._ The muscles in your abdomen so overworked that even laughing hurts, but somehow that just makes it _funnier_.

You’ve nearly composed yourselves when Whiskey tries to prop himself up on an elbow that immediately slides out from under him and almost smacks you in the head, and that just sets you both off all over again. Giving up entirely, you just lay there, shoulder-to-shoulder, laughing like a couple of punch-drunk loons.

“You hungry, honeybee?” Whiskey asks breathlessly when he’s got himself back under some semblance of control. “I could eat a goddamn _horse.”_

Now that he mentions it you realize just how long ago lunch was, and your appetite, which had so far taken a backseat to both your temper and libido, roars back to life. “God yeah, actually. ’M fuckin’ starving.”

So for the second time today, you get room service on Whiskey’s dime. Or his _employer’s_ dime, he insists. You’re not sure if that’s better or worse. It’s a little ridiculous. Even more so when you think to look for a clock and realize just how late it is, but you’re absolutely _famished_ and the second he’s on the phone asking in a pleasantly fuck-drunk voice for a couple hamburgers and french fries you’re stomach’s growling so insistently you’re almost certain the staff on the other end of the line heard it.

He’s chuckling as he hangs up the phone, draping over you to nuzzle into your neck. For the first time you notice just how much his mustache _tickles_ , and you squirm under him, giggling all over again.

“Love me a woman with an appetite,” he mumbles, nipping playfully at you.

“God, what the fuck are we _doing?”_ you stutter out through your giggles. It’s not meant to be a _real_ question. You’re practically a space cadet right now, and you can’t remember the last time you were this giddy after sex. But Whiskey shifts a little, pulling back to look down at you, and you can’t quite parse the look on his face. “Never had a one-night-stand like this before.”

"Hm.” He drops his head a bit, tapping an idle finger against your collarbone. “Think the repeat offense kinda cancels out the one-night-stand idea, honeybee.”

“You didn’t strike me as the repeating kind.”

“Mm. Didn’t strike you as the kind who could hold his dick up for longer'n a minute, either. So I’ll try not to take offense at your continued misjudgment of my character.” His eyes wander away from yours, pulling up his well-worn crooked smile with some degree of effort. “But if you’re looking for a polite way to tell this old man you’ve had your fill, there ain’t no need to beat around the bush about it.”

You might’ve appreciated the easy out once. After tonight, though, you’re almost offended at it. You’re not in the habit of begging for things you only have a mind to dispose of. A little of that flighty panic starts to take hold, and you tamp it down. Fun. This is just for _fun._ Even if you do want a little more. Fuck, don’t start overthinking it _now._

“Is that what you want?” you ask, and it’s only the curiosity in your voice that keeps it from sharpening into an accusation.

Whiskey shakes his head, a bit of incredulity in his eyes. “What I want…shit, what _I_ want is to get me somethin’ nice an’ artery-clogging to eat and then get some fuckin’ sleep. Preferably next to the woman who has fucked me ragged two nights running, if she happens to be amenable to that kind of thing. That’s as far as my wants go right this second.”

The deflection is so clumsy it’s almost funny. “Chickenshit,” you mutter.

Whiskey blinks down at you, shocked for a moment before you give him a teasing smile. “Fuckin’ comedian,” Whiskey says, snorting laughter. “Ain’t no softening that tongue of yours, is there?”

“You never know.” You shift a little, heart hammering as you consider your next words. “How much longer are you going to be here?”

The crooked smile slips, becoming softer. "Well. That sorta depends on you, honeybee. _My_ work’s all wrapped up. But if you’re gonna be around a bit longer and are lookin’ for a bit of company I might be convinced to stay a bit longer.“

You feel the smile creep up on your face before you can stop it. "I wouldn’t mind a little continued reprieve from corporate hell. Under one condition,” you insist, waving a finger at him.

Schooling his face into a parody of gravitas, he nods expectantly. _Proceed._

“I need to know something first. Some _things_. Plural.”

He cocks an eyebrow. "How many is plural?“

You consider for a second, squinting. "Three.”

“All right,” he says, resting his chin against your shoulder. "Fire away.“

You pop out your thumb. "Are you a serial killer?”

He stares at you for a long, silent beat before his eyes slip closed and he shakes his head, his chest hitching with stifled laughter. “No, honeybee, I am not now nor have I ever been a serial killer.”

You nod, grinning. “Okay, one down.” You pop out your pointer finger. “Are you married?”

The levity bleeds out of his face with a swiftness that makes you regret the question instantly, sure he’s about to drop a bombshell directly on your head that’s going to leave you hating him _and_ yourself. But he shakes his head, holds up his ringless left hand as if in proof, as though nobody having an affair would’ve ever thought to slip a ring off beforehand. But then, very quietly, he adds: “Was. But not for a long time.”

You nod dumbly, mutter, “Okay.”

For a second you wonder if you should apologize – you’ve clearly tripped on something raw by accident – but then he’s poking you in the ribs and drawing in a sharp breath. "And number three?”

A little grateful, you pop out your middle finger ask your last question: “What do you do? What do you _really_ do?”

The corner of his mouth gives a twitch. "Shit, is that all? Well. _Officially_ _,_ I’m a businessman. I own a sizable amount of shares in the Statesman distillery company. Which, incidentally, is where that fine stock of bourbon whiskey came from,“ he adds.

You lean back, eyeing him carefully. You don’t _think_ he’s lying. And yet….

Your fingers find the catch of a scar against his ribs. "You’re scarred to shit for a liquor tycoon, cowboy.”

The twitch turns into a grin. "I have been known to get a little rough-and-tumble once in a while.“

"I don’t know if I believe that story any more than I did the James Bond bullshit.”

Whiskey huffs a laugh. His jeans are in a puddle at the end of the bed and he drags them up, pulling out a thick leather wallet out of the back pocket. From one of the compartments he pulls a business card embossed in gold and black and hands it to you. 

_Jack “Whiskey” Daniels, Statesman Distillery, Kentucky._

You blink at it, giggling a little. "Jesus Christ that is _actually_ your name?“

"More or less. Been Anglicized for flavor, among other things.”

“What was it before?”

There’s an odd sharpness in his eyes when he looks at you, a shrewdness you’d never have expected from the costume cowboy you’d met down in the bar. For a moment you’re sure that not only is he not going to answer, but that you’ve overstepped a line you weren’t even aware existed.

“That’s four questions,” he says, “not three.”

“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” you add with a tilt of your head.

The corner of his mouth curls slightly, and the sharpness fades. "Well now, how can I resist that a bargain like that?“ He pauses a moment, as if reconsidering, then adds: "It _was_ Joaquin.”

“Joaquin?”

“Mm.” He nods. There’s only a moment of quiet before he tilts his hips to the side, jostling you. “C'mon, darlin. A deal’s a deal.”

You roll your eyes, staring up at the ceiling. And you tell him your name. He repeats it back, and you don’t need to see his face to know he’s smiling.

“Pleasure to meet you,” he says. _“Literally.”_

“Jackass.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited 10/5/2020 on account of the fact that I am excessively particular and there were some parts that needed fixing.


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